


Hero Worship

by ravenna_c_tan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, Forced Bonding, M/M, Post - Half-Blood Prince, slavefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-17
Updated: 2011-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-21 12:37:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 25
Words: 37,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenna_c_tan/pseuds/ravenna_c_tan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Snape did not escape Hogwarts after killing Dumbledore? What if he was caught? What lengths would he, the Order, and Harry go to to insure his future loyalty and the downfall of Voldemort? The Order resorts to a bonding spell to ensure Snape's loyalty, bonding him to Harry Potter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Regan_V](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regan_V/gifts).



> **Title:** Hero Worship, Part 1/25  
>  **Author:** Ravenna C. Tan  
>  **Pairing:** Harry/Snape  
>  **Word Count:** 36,901 total, 1142 this part  
>  **Disclaimer:** This is non-commercial fanfiction. Trademarked characters are used for non-commercial purposes.  
>  **Feedback:** Yes, please.  
>  **Betas:** Miraba, Jordan Grant  
>  **Author's Note:** A gift for regan_v, as a request she made about submissive!snape brought this on.  
>  **Warnings:** A touch of BDSM/power exchange sex.  
>  Written for part of the _From Dusk till Dawn Severus Snape/Harry Potter Fuh-Q-Fest_ , the "What if?" challenge.

HERO WORSHIP, Chapter One  
by Ravenna C. Tan

"Put this on."

Shacklebolt tosses something shiny onto the table in front of me with a faint metallic sound. It is a fine silver chain, the links almost too small for the eye to see, at least in the dim light of the cell. I pick it up and fumble with the tiny clasp, then realize it is large enough to slip over my head.

I swallow once before doing so, as I get to my feet. The Order may as well have given me a dog collar to wear, given what the chain's function is to be. I wonder if Shacklebolt decided on the silver chain himself. It is common enough in design that it might go entirely unnoticed on me, or at least unremarked upon, and I am grateful for that. It lies nearly invisible against the edges of my robes. Why then, do I feel so humiliated to be wearing it?

At least, I think to myself, Shacklebolt will be fair. He has always been so in my dealings with him for the Order in the past. The fact that I am alive and breathing and not a charred pile of ash at this moment testifies to that.

They don't like it. None of them do, not even Minerva, who had the most inkling other than me about what Albus had planned. But now they must trust me as I trusted him, as we all did... I sit abruptly, knocked down by my grief. Albus is gone. By my hand. I do not blame them for not trusting me. For hating me.

Shacklebolt is solicitous and I wonder how much of my grief he can sense through the charm on the chain. The Caretaker Spell should funnel knowledge of my mental state to my principal. But his low voice says nothing of the searing regret I must live with. "I know this must be hard for you," he says, addressing instead my wounded pride.

I straighten in the chair. "I have accepted the terms." In the vacuum left by Albus' death, the Order has been in some disarray. If I knew more, if I had been allowed to... but no, going along with their demands, even the ludicrous ones, is the only way now for me to further the Dark Lord's defeat and to insure that Albus' sacrifice--and mine--are not in vain.

I was supposed to be at the Dark Lord's side now. I was supposed to be iron-clad and beyond reproach, having killed the Dark Lord's greatest enemy and having come close to swatting the Potter fly, as well. There were witnesses. All had gone according to plan, until the moment I set foot outside of Hogwarts' gates. If I had Disapparated just a bit faster, the plan would have worked.

But Shacklebolt had either just come or had been lying in wait, and although the others escaped him, I did not.

That it took the Order only five days of raping my mind with wand and potion to come to a consensus, cockamamie though the conclusion was, was nothing short of a miracle. I suppose I would have proposed something similar in their position. How can a man who has kept the most powerful Dark Wizard in our age fooled ever be fully believed? Hence I am to serve the Order, as I always did, only I am collared like an animal, fine silver link or no.

I look up into Kingsley's eyes, which are warm with genuine concern. It will not be so bad being bound to him by the spell, I think. He is firm, but he is fair, and he listens. We have always worked well together. He holds out his hand to help me to my feet.

His palm is warm and dry. I stand. "Thank you." I brush imaginary lint from my robes. At least being imprisoned at Hogwarts has meant I have clean clothes. "So," I say, my hands clasped together. "What is the first order of business? Are we to go chasing a madman's trinkets, then?"

Kingsley puts his hand on the cell door and it opens, charmed to his touch. "Me? I go back to the Prime Minister's office."

I follow him a few steps into the dungeon corridor--yes, the dungeons of Hogwarts can and do function as actual dungeons--and see him turn as he realizes my confusion. I had assumed...

"Snape," he says. "I'm not... leading the search for the Horcrux."

Even as he says it, I know who is--who it must be. So I already know what it is he is going to say. But I find that either for clarity's sake, or just to satisfy my own self-flagellatory mood, I ask, one finger threaded through the silver chain as if I could snap it: "Who is my principal?"

He stammers and I wonder if he misled me purposefully or accidentally. "I thought you knew..."

" _Who_ , Shacklebolt. Or are you going to force me to guess? No, it couldn't be Minerva, she'll have her hands full with Hogwarts now, and it can't be Lupin, no, wouldn't do for there to be three days a month when he might be too barking mad to keep me in line..."

He stops my tirade with a hand on my shoulder. "It's Potter."

Of course it is. I stifle my reaction.

It's too late to change it now. I've given my word, sealed the charm. But something in me forces me to register the fullness of my feelings on this matter. "You really thought it wise to put my well-being in the hands of an underage wizard with poor impulse control and a penchant for flouting authority?"

Shacklebolt's hand is still on my shoulder and he hangs his head slightly. "No. I don't think anyone thinks it's... wise. But we seem to have no alternative."

"Because grief over Dumbledore has driven you all batty?"

He shoves me back an inch, eyes blazing, and I wonder if perhaps my assessment of his ability for fairness was exaggerated. "It was a compromise we could all live with. Even you, you said."

I exhale through my nose. "And I will. If he doesn't slash me to ribbons the first time he gets angry with me."

"You're forgetting, Snape. The Argus spell won't allow him to harm you. Just monitor your location, mood, and intent. It's a protective spell..."

"I know that." Had I been a helpless infant, and Potter a fostering adult, the spell would have greatly aided my well-being.

As it is, I do not feel so confident that this will be the case. The last time Potter and I saw each other, less than a week ago, I did not leave him with a good impression. I'd taunted him about his father and left him wandless on the ground, and nearly took his head off with a hex that had come out a bit more forceful than I had intended.

I cannot shake the feeling that "protective" spell or not, I am now at his mercy.

"He has your wand," Shacklebolt says, ushering me toward the stairs out of the cell block. "He's waiting for you in your office."

What Shacklebolt says does nothing to dispel that feeling.


	2. Chapter 2

HERO WORSHIP, Chapter Two  
by Ravenna C. Tan

 

My office. At first I thought it strange that Potter would want to meet me there, the site of so many of his failures. But as I walk in and see him seated at my desk--an ebony wand (mine) in his fingers--I realize that of course, he means the entire thing as symbolic of the way the tables are now turned. He is no longer my student. I am now the one in the subordinate position, and he has found a way to rub my nose in it without saying a word.

It is a positively Slytherin tactic. I walk up to the desk and stand there, hands clasped and one eyebrow raised. "Potter."

"Snape." He looks surprisingly calm. Perhaps the events of the preceding week, which have included the death and funeral of his mentor among other shocks, have drained him of all emotion. "Sit down."

I sit in the large wooden chair in front of the desk. The chair was designed to intimidate students who would perch upon its too-high edge nervously. It has no such effect on me, though I do not allow myself to slouch. "Shacklebolt tells me you are leading the search for the missing object."

Something flashes through his eyes--perhaps he wanted to be the one to tell me?--but when he speaks he is calm. "I am. And no matter how I feel about you, or whether I believe your story, you're probably the best-equipped to assist me."

He runs his fingers up and down my wand and I suppress the snarl growing in my throat. I don't need Legilimency to know that he's thinking this is the wand with which I flicked aside his attacks, hexed him, and--yes, there's the fire in his eyes--killed Albus Dumbledore.

"You may snap it, if you wish," I say, half-wishing he would do it. That wand has committed evil acts, indeed. "But if I am to assist you, I may need it."

He lets the wand fall to the desk, a look of disgust flaring before he smothers it. My wand rolls toward me and I Summon it silently to my relieved hand.

His eyebrows pop upward, but he keeps his voice even. "I think the first order of business should be quite obvious."

I suppress a smirk. He sounds almost as if he is trying to imitate me, sitting there in my chair. I play along. "Which is...?"

"Teach me to do that. Summon wandlessly. Nonverbally." Now his eyes are alight with hunger. I had disarmed him during our altercation, sent his wand flying, and watched as his hands tugged uselessly at the grass, unable to find it. No doubt this memory is as fresh in his mind as it is mine.

I cannot help but sag slightly. Traipsing about the countryside on a mad quest with the boy would have been bad enough, but now, of all times, he wants me to _teach_ him something?

Before I can formulate what to say, he continues. "You said yourself that it was of utmost importance that we master nonverbal spells. At the start of term."

I wonder if that feels as long ago to him as it does to me. "Yes, I did say that."

"And you know quite well that I haven't mastered it yet, don't you, Snape?" Yes, he certainly remembers. His hands have disappeared behind the desk and I feel certain he has drawn his own wand and is holding it out of sight. "You made that quite clear... the other night."

I am impressed that he has been able to hold his anger in check for so long. Part of me knows just the words to say to goad him, to make him explode. But that part of me can serve no purpose at the moment. If he can control himself, I can a hundredfold. As I choose my words carefully, however, I am uncomfortably reminded of the other wizard around whom I have tiptoed for the past two decades. Angering the Dark Lord was never a wise strategy. I clear my throat. "It would serve you well to sharpen your dueling skills. That includes perfecting nonverbal casting of all your hexes and jinxes, as well as Summoning your own wand to hand, and..."

Here I falter, realizing that the word on my lips might set off the bomb anyway.

"And?"

I place my wand on the desk where he can see it. "There are many accomplished duelists in the Order..." I begin, but don't finish as he says again, harder:

"And...?"

"And Occlumency, Mr. Potter."

"I knew you were going to say that," he says, finally sounding like the Potter I know.

I fold my hands. "I am fully prepared to assist you in any way." For Albus, I add, silently. "But surely there must be someone other than me to teach..."

"No." He stands as he speaks. "The headmaster was right about one thing. You're the best Occlumens there is, and given what I saw the other night, maybe the best duelist, too."

I do not allow my gaze to waver from his face. "And yet, as I recall, you have never thought me the best teacher."

"Yeah, yeah, and you think I'm a crap student. Well, maybe all I needed was the right motivation." His puts his hands on the desk and I can see his wand clenched in his fist.

I have no doubt that had he been sufficiently focused the other night, that he would have tried to kill me. He was certainly motivated enough then. I think it prudent not to mention this now, however.

He stares at me with a curious expression and I wonder what has captured his attention so. His expression softens and he sits again, looking slightly chastened. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

Only force of long habit keeps my mouth from gaping open. Of course. Argus. The charm conveys my emotions to him. I do not know which I dislike more, that he senses my distress, or that the sight of him wand-in-fist distressed me in the first place. My instinct is to deny it, _I'm not afraid of you, Potter..._ , but I know it's both futile, given the spell, and infantile, as well. I force myself to be calm.

He continues. "I can feel how hard you're trying, Snape. And I just want you to know that... I appreciate that. Even if I get angry or frustrated or... or whatever. Okay?"

Eloquent as ever. I suppress my sneer and I suppose he feels that, too. I do not know how much detail he can discern. I place my fingers on the edge of the desk as if it were a piano. He lays his wand on the wooden surface and does the same. I nod in approval.

"Let us first try it verbally, as you are not accustomed to doing any magic without your wand in your hand. You are already quite accomplished at Summoning Charms, so this may come easily to you."

He looks shocked for a moment, questioning.

"Did you think I forgot that you Summoned your broom all the way from the castle to the Triwizard arena?"

He wants to argue. Merlin, help me. I've been doing everything in my power to acquiesce to his whims--and it's the boy who can't resist fighting. "You've never given me a compliment before."

 _I've never been forced to cooperate with you before._ I leave the thought unspoken. "Am I wrong? Or did you employ some nefarious cheat to strengthen the incantation that day?"

"No! Of course not. But I've tried to Summon my wand before, and it didn't work." He sounds almost glad about it. Clearly, he feels most comfortable with me while arguing.

"Nonverbally?" I ask.

"Well, yeah. I was Petrified at the time, so I couldn't speak, and my wand had been knocked from my hand."

"You sound as if you hope to fail at this."

"What?" He blinks, as if he cannot quite believe what he just heard me say.

"Potter, please let us take this lesson one step at a time. Just because at a previous juncture you found yourself hexed and unable to perform the feat does not mean that here and now, under calm, unjinxed conditions, when you are allowed to speak, that you cannot do it, nor that I am wrong about your abilities. Though if you would like to prove me wrong for the sake of proving me wrong, by all means, _fail_." By the end of it my teeth are grinding so hard that it's a miracle that I can get the words out.

It would seem his jaw is in the same state as he fairly growls " _Accio_ wand." His wand whips the few inches into his hand so quickly I almost wonder if he's stabbed himself with it.

His anger has not abated, but he nods and exhales. "Okay."

"Now let's move on to the nonverbal way." I should have been a dentist, I think. Because pulling teeth would be easier and more enjoyable than this. But I am not wrong. It takes only a few hours time before the boy's wand flies from the far corner of the room, hidden from his sight, to his hand with a mere thought.

I find myself pleased by this. Very pleased. He looks at his wand in his hand and smiles for what must be the first time in days. The charm conveys his approval back to me as a warm feeling in my stomach, but I do not return the smile.


	3. Chapter 3

HERO WORSHIP, Chapter Three  
by Ravenna C. Tan

 

I return to my quarters that evening after dinner with a growing sense of melancholy. I had never thought to return to these rooms again. I had resigned myself to Albus' plan. Yet here I am again. The sitting room's placid appearance taunts me, the image of the simple, quiet life I was never allowed to lead.

After the long afternoon spent strung so taut for Potter, the thought of Albus' body flung backwards by my curse makes me snap. I obliterate the armchair where the old man used to sit on the rare occasions when he visited me here. I move next with a kind of manic glee to reduce the side table to kindling. It shatters most satisfactorily.

The sprint down the corridor to the potions classroom just fuels my unleashed rage and once there I let fly hex after hex onto the wooden workbenches. Perhaps the fourth or fifth one has gone flying into splinters when suddenly Potter is there, his arms around me, or maybe mine are around him, as he appears without warning, off balance, falling against me.

His sudden presence is sobering, to say the least, and I am so shocked that my wand falls from my hand.

He takes a step back and I see he is dressed only in a thin shirt and underpants. He winces as he steps on broken wood, and his voice is high with alarm. "What are you doing?" He gestures and the wand-- _my_ wand--flies to his hand.

I am staring at the traitorous stick of ebony in his fist, but I say in a voice approximating my usual aplomb, "I believe the Muggle term would be 'blowing off steam.'"

"By destroying everything in sight? Jeez, Snape, and this isn't even your classroom anymore!"

I had forgotten that. And as I trip on that thought, four other thoughts are vying for attention in my head. One is that Potter has got my wand and isn't it startling that he can not only Summon his own wand nonverbally, but mine, too? Two is that it may not matter whose classroom this is since there may very well not be a next term at Hogwarts. Three is that Argus must have brought him here, since it isn't possible to Apparate within the grounds.

Four is that under that thin shirt and underpants he is erect, and I wonder what activity he was in the midst of when he appeared here.

I quickly rotate back to thought Number One. "Your Summoning skills appear to go beyond even today's practice."

"I... you..." He hands the wand back to me stiffly. "Don't do that again," he scolds, his face red.

"Did you assume I'd gone on a traitorous rampage?"

"I didn't know what to think," he says. "You know, the charm works the other way, too. The chain works kind of like a portkey. Next time I could have it bring you to me, instead of the other way around."

Curiosity gets the better of me. "And why didn't you?"

He sputters, unable or unwilling to answer that. It dawns on him that the charm has no way to return him to his previous place, either, so he now faces the prospect of walking barefoot and half-clothed from the dungeon all the way back to Gryffindor Tower, or wherever he has taken up residence upon answering Minerva's call.

 _Mr. Potter, I realize the heat of summer must be unbearable for you to gallivant so..._ That and other snide possibilities come to mind as I turn and walk out of the classroom. But what I say is: "If you'd like to borrow a cloak, you may."

"Er... okay."

Thank Merlin he says nothing else, merely follows me back to my door. The shattered furniture within still mocks me. I hand Potter a black traveling cloak, Transfigure it short enough for him to wear without tripping on it, and slip it over his shoulders.

Now my face is red. Thought Number Four simply will not subside. "Good night, Mr. Potter," I say.

"Good night, Snape," he says, turning away and nearly fleeing barefoot down the corridor.

When he is gone I Banish the mess and pace in front of the hearth. I have learned to hide my thoughts from everyone, and my feelings from most. But this damned caretaker spell, if it really allows him to sense my emotions, how can I hide the fact that it has been years--years, I tell you--since I saw male flesh turgid in anticipation of pleasure? And that the sight of his...?

Merlin, this cannot be. But my brain does its own wondering, about who he was with. Or was he alone? "Blowing off steam" in his own way?

My hands clench into fists as I realize that if I seek any relief in that fashion he will know. He will sense it. I am mortified by the additional thought that if I become too excited, he may whisk me to wherever he is to scold me as he did earlier.

I am only making it worse. I grab a bottle of Ogdens' Old Firewhiskey from the shelf and pour myself a generous glass. I light a cool fire just for some visual distraction and stare into the flames in the grate as I gulp the whiskey down without tasting it. Albus Dumbledore is dead, but I am the one who is in hell.


	4. Chapter 4

Hero Worship, Chapter Four  
Ravenna C. Tan

 

The next morning we convene at the Room of Requirement, which is a much more sensible place than either a classroom or office if I am to teach him to duel. I step through the door to find him already there, the remnants of a feather pillow scattered across half the room. He reddens as my gaze slides from the obliterated target to his face. I do not even have to say anything--he knows full well that he is engaging in the very behavior that he ordered me to refrain from last night, the little hypocrite.

He has circles under his eyes to match mine. It would appear neither of us slept well last night. At least he is decently robed, today, his Muggle clothes hidden under one of his school robes.

No, not a school robe--it is missing its house crest. I file that detail away and turn to the convenient blackboard along one wall. As I begin to write, I hear the mess behind me being _Scourgified._

"Try it non-verbally," I say automatically, as I continue to jot on the board.

He goes silent without argument and I count my blessings. When I turn around, he is seated on a tuffet, his ankles crossed in front of him and his elbow on one knee. I indicate the list behind me.

"These are all spells with which I believe you are familiar," I say, "despite the substandard instructors you have suffered in Defense."

God, he wants to argue every point. I can see it in his eyes. "Remus did all right."

"Hmm, one out of how many incompetents? Umbridge's useless reading course? Lockhart's preening sessions? I did as much as I could to reverse the damage last term, and we are fortunate that your aptitude in this area makes up for much of the rest."

"I didn't demonstrate much aptitude the other night." I can see him swallowing hard, as if he's swallowing the urge to scream at me.

"I remember." He'd tried to use _Cruciatus_ on me, but never got past the first syllable. "May we count it as another incredible stroke of luck on your part that the wizard you dueled that night had no genuine wish to harm you?"

He recalls the depths to which he sank when I held him wandless and helpless in the mud. Reddening further, he mumbles, "I told you to kill me, didn't I."

Albus, Albus, you've placed all our Fates in the hands of this boy... I take what will not be my only calming breath of the day. The gap between us is large enough that I sit on the tuffet next to him as a symbolic gesture. He looks up at me. "Yes, you did. We shall take that as evidence that you were not at your best at the time."

He lets out a bark of bitter laughter.

"Let us consider the entire scene on the hillside last week as one tremendous... learning experience." I can see why he's laughing--the words sound ludicrous to me, as well. But I forge ahead. "When you face the Dark Lord, you will likely be in some measure of emotional distress, with no time to compose your thoughts or feelings. You wanted to kill me the other night, but that burning desire was not enough to give you the means to do so. What will you do if next time it is Miss Granger or Mr. Weasley who is killed before your very eyes?"

His face is suffused with pain and determination as he stares into his own vision of what that final, hellish confrontation might be like.

"Look at me, Potter." His eyes snap up. "I have one goal in life and one goal only, and that is to see that the Dark Lord is defeated. You are the instrument through which this will happen. When you can beat me in a duel, I will be satisfied that you are ready to make the attempt. Did you enjoy feeling helpless as I flicked aside your attacks?"

"No!" His anger comes to the surface.

"Do as I say and you will never have to live through that again." Merlin, it's hard not to just crush him with belittling comments, but to do so would not only be counterproductive, it would merely be a cover for my own fear that we have so far to go. Until he can Occlude properly, even his strongest, surest hexes will be swatted aside.

His eyes are on the list of spells. I see his surprise that I have included _Sectumsempra._

"You may note that some of these are not Ministry-approved."

A hint of smirk tugs at his cheek.

"And there are others I will teach you, if you will deign not to mention them to Rufus Scrimgeour."

Suddenly he is standing up, stammering. "That reminds me. Um, hang on a second."

My mouth opens to rebuke him for interrupting the lesson, but I do not get far. He opens a cabinet in the corner of the room and pulls out a book. I recognize it before he even turns toward me.

"So that is where you hid it," I say, on my feet before I can stop myself.

"What did you expect?" he answers, defiant. "That I was just going to do as you said? What would you have done if I'd brought you the book?"

"Confiscation was my goal," I say with a calm I do not feel. "After all, it is mine." We sound like some twisted version of siblings, fighting over a favorite toy.

I turn away from him to stare at the blackboard. "There are those not in that book." I shudder to think what havoc he might have wrought with my NEWT-level text, before I remember I burned it, on Albus' advice, long ago. The margins of that book were annotated with even worse spells than what I'd written in my 6th year book. I forge ahead with my planned lecture for the day. " _Sectumsempra_ is perhaps the worst of the ones you have found, but there are far worse."

"Worse than _Avada Kedavra_?"

I whirl and face him. I should be cold. I should use my icy, belittling voice. But I can hear the insinuation in his, the fact that he wants to remind me, every chance he gets, that I killed Albus. So I am hot, my anger untrammeled. "Do you plan to kill every Death Eater you meet?" I take a step toward him. "Do you think you can? Did you know that you cannot use _Avada Kedavra_ on two attackers at once? Do you believe that you can merely leave a trail of corpses behind you until at last you face the Dark Lord entirely alone?"

How and when exactly I closed the distance between us and gripped him by the chin, I do not know. I push him away, more disgusted with myself for my appalling lack of control than with his juvenile taunts.

I am shaking and just barely restraining myself from storming out of the room. Then it turns out I don't have to. My eyes are closed but I hear something thump on the floor, and then the soft shuffle of his shoes. The door opens and closes.

He is gone. I open my eyes to see the book sitting at my feet. A peace offering?

I am in no mood for peace. I destroy the book with a well-placed hex, and then turn to the pillows with more hexes rising on my lips.

This time he does not stop me.


	5. Chapter 5

Hero Worship, Chapter Five  
Ravenna C. Tan

 

Minerva. Thank Merlin for Minerva.

She sees me for tea that afternoon. The seriousness of the situation makes our meeting a near-parody of the times I sought Albus' advice over students in this very office.

The problem is very easy to encapsulate for her, before we have even finished our first cup. "He and I are far too angry with each other, still, to be productive."

Her mouth curves downward in disappointment. "I had hoped your mutual goals would overcome your mutual enmity, Severus."

"As did I. We made excellent progress yesterday, I thought. But today..." I sigh. "It is less than a week since that night, Minerva. He tried to use _Cruciatus_ on me and I utterly humiliated him. It's too soon for us to be able to simply lay that aside."

She peers at me with narrowed eyes over the top of her cup, but nods. "Has the charm galled you, much?"

She knows that it does. She knew that it would when she agreed to this course of action. "He knows my every emotion."

"And he is not mature enough to know what to do with that knowledge," she says, almost to herself. "When you are angry, he is angry. When you are tense, he is tense."

She is right. "Yes."

"But you, Severus?" She is too kind to chide me, but I hear what is implied. I am the adult. I am the so-called master of my emotions.

"I am trying, but..." I set the teacup down on the side table. _But my emotional ballast is gone._ I cannot bring myself to look at the portrait that hangs above her head, where a gray-bearded wizard snoozes behind his half-moon spectacles.

She nods as though she understands. "There must be some way to break the tension between you two. Is there no common ground between you that is not fraught with traps?"

"I am afraid that the few things we do share are our worst areas of conflict." Potter is not the only one who lost a father-figure on the Astronomy Tower that night. "What are you suggesting, Minerva, that we take up a hobby together?"

She raises an eyebrow to acknowledge my weak stab at humor, and I find I prefer it greatly to Albus' forced chortles. "Well, soon hopefully we shall have some leads that ought to keep you both occupied."

"Albus' journals?"

"The decryption is proceeding." She says nothing more and I do not press. I do not think I want to find out just how much I am trusted, or mistrusted, at this point. "But we were speaking of Argus."

She opens a drawer in her desk and pulls out a slim but ancient-looking leather-bound volume, the spine cracked and peeling and the title unreadable. "I know you agreed to it in haste, Severus, and with incomplete information. There are some things I can tell you about the charm."

To be precise, the spell is not a single charm, but a compound incantation weaving together several elements. That much I know. I wait for her to go on.

"The original form of the spell was developed in the Middle Ages, when infant mortality was high, even in the Wizarding world, and when various upheavals had caused some witches and wizards to leave their offspring in the care of others."

I know this, too, but I know better than to interrupt a lecture as it is gathering steam--something Potter will never learn, I fear.

"In a typical use, the parents of the child to be fostered would cast a caretaker or guardian spell onto the child itself, binding the child and principal for life or until the child came of age and gained the power to undo the binding for him or herself, hence the references to it as the Godparent Charm. In your case, we felt it inappropriate to cast the spell on you directly, and have bound the magic to the chain, instead." She took great care in opening the book and leafing through a few pages. "There are seven elements to Argus, the version of the spell we used, and although we did not think they would all be necessary for our purposes, we could not extract pieces without danger of the entire spell failing."

She takes a sip of her tea to wet her throat before continuing. "Since the spell is designed to work with infants, it connects a primal part of the mind to the principal. This is why Occlumency will not function to block it, and why your principal can sense your shifts of mood. In particular, if you are suffering any form of distress, your principal will sense that sharply, and the spell will compel him to act."

"In what way?" I ask aloud.

"I am afraid to say that the exact consequences to the principal are... uncertain. I do not think that Mr. Potter would die if he failed to come to your aid within a certain amount of time, and yet it is possible that if you die, he will, as well. He was willing to take that chance, of course." I can almost see her regret that she let him take this course of action, the headstrong little fool. Or maybe I am hoping my own thoughts were reflected in her eyes. "I believe the compulsion is matched to the circumstance. If the baby was hungry, the principal would also suffer hunger. The charm attunes the principal to the needs of his charge under the assumption that the baby lacks the ability to speak."

"And the portkey-like aspects?"

"I was just coming to that. One of the most powerful parts of the spell, it allows the principal to either spirit the charge away from danger, or bring the principal there, no matter where you may be. We have not tested it to see if that applies to Unplottable locations, but my theory is that it would still work. The principal would not know where to go nor how to get there, but he or she would appear there nonetheless. A related strand in the spell's weave also allows the principal to sense the location of the charge, and whether the charge is on the move."

In other words, if I flee, they can find me or force me to return. "No doubt a handy ability to have when one's charge has been kidnapped for ransom."

"No doubt. The final two parts of the spell are common sense, as well. One prevents the principal from harming the charge and the other prevents the charge from harming the principal."

"Is there a strict definition of 'harm?' Will we be unable to practice dueling because the spell will prevent us?"

She purses her lips. "The literature seems to indicate that the harm must be fairly serious, so, no, I do not think a few minor hexes will provoke the spell into action. I believe it may read intent of harm more than any measure of the actual damage done."

"Truly an ingenious spell," I say, sincerely. "And a unique use of it. Whose idea was it to apply it to me?"

She brushes aside my question for the moment, as she is not finished with the things she wants to tell me. "Some other versions of the spell, which we did not use, include compulsions of obedience on the part of the charge, and some give the principal the power to punish the charge for disobeying."

I am silent. She does not tell me this as a warning, but I cannot help but hear it as one. It could have been worse. They could have bound me permanently to Potter and put me completely in his thrall. But they did not.

"Kingsley and I acted _in loco parentis_ ," she says with a small smirk. What an odd family group that would be. "Potter cannot remove the chain, nor can you, obviously. Only he or I."

"And if you are both killed?"

"We must hope that does not come to pass. It would be too easy if a principal could simply have the parents of the charge assassinated to be freed of the charm. One of us, at least, must live for the charm to be lifted."

I realize my fingers have become stiff on my teacup and I set it down again. "And I must live for Potter to complete his task."

"You have always appreciated the edge of the sword on which we walk, Severus."

We nod to each other and I pick up my cup again. The leaves at the bottom tell me nothing. "Do you think it possible that the charm could actually affect my mood?"

She sips as she thinks. "Why do you ask?"

"As I said before, I am finding it unusually difficult to keep my emotions in check." Which brings us back to the reason I came to see her in the first place.

Her eyes are open and warm behind her wire-rimmed spectacles. "Have you considered, Severus, that perhaps the loss of Albus may have affected you more than you admit?"

My moral compass is gone. My touchstone. She is right, of course. Argus is not to blame. I take my leave of her quickly after that, like an animal with the need to go somewhere dark to lick my wounds.

It is not until I am in my dungeon rooms that I realize I left without the answer to the question of who thought of using a guardian spell in the first place.


	6. Chapter 6

Hero Worship, Chapter Six  
Ravenna C. Tan

I had thought I might brood over Albus once I was alone. But my thoughts instead were again directed to my lost composure. I had grabbed the boy today, one hand buried in his robes, the other on his chin. In all the years I have spent tormenting him, hating him at times, I have rarely resorted to physical violence. I recall hauling him bodily from the Pensieve, but today I grabbed him as a street thug might accost a victim in a dark alley. And he allowed me to. One message of Minerva's was clear to me: I must be the master of my own emotions, now.

I am sitting by the fire with a glass of cognac in my hand, mulling these thoughts over, when the knock comes. I find myself stiff upon standing--I have clearly been sitting there for some time. Instead of walking to the door I open it with a spell and sit back down.

Potter stalks in, his anger stiffening his gait. He is carrying something in his hand, a small cloth-wrapped bundle. For a moment I think it is the book, before I remember I destroyed it.

Without preamble he sits in the other chair by the fireplace and thrusts the cloth toward me. "Eat," he says.

"Why?" I say, even as my cognac-dulled brain is realizing why and I quickly amend: "Oh, the spell. Has it been that long?"

"Bloody dungeon," he says. "It's nearly ten at night, Snape."

I take what I realize is a napkin containing some sort of sandwich out of his hands. Fascinating. I do not feel hungry, but my body must need food, and Argus tells Potter so.

Even more fascinating is the sandwich itself, which is liverwurst and onions, one of my preferences. "Where did you get this?"

"House elves. I, um, asked them what you like."

Ah. I take a bite and he visibly relaxes. "That was... perceptive of you." No, not perceptive, what is the word I am trying to think of? Perhaps I've had more of the cognac than I thought. Clever? Kind? Perspicacious?

"Well," he says, sullen but no longer quite as irritable. "The spell does 'attune me to your needs.'" I begin to doubt my theory that the binding was his idea as it sounds like he received the same speech I did from Minerva.

"It was thoughtful of you to ask the elves for my preference, I mean." Now that I am eating I realize how hungry I am.

"Why didn't you have dinner?" he asks.

"The simple answer is that I opted to drown my sorrows instead. The less simple answer is that I am... accustomed to a life of deprivation."

He is holding himself by the ribs, looking at the floor, not at me. "I hate being hungry. The Dursley's used to starve me out of spite."

The irony of the situation burns into my alcohol-steeped mind. He is the child of foster parents himself, the sort of ones that Argus was designed to defeat. I find myself speechless.

"So, please," he says, and I am shocked at the plaintive sound in his voice. "Please eat. Don't make me make you eat."

I am wiping the crumbs from my lips with the napkin when I say "I shall endeavor not to. It was not my intention to make you suffer."

He scrubs his hand through his hair and switches his staring from the floor to the ceiling. "I know."

He clearly has something else to say. I am accustomed to waiting, and do so.

Eventually he says: "I'm not looking forward to another sleepless night, either."

"Nor am I."

Now he looks directly at me, that plaintive look in his eye. What is he begging for this time?

"Oh, forget it, I can't do this. I'll meet you at the Room of Requirement after breakfast." He is already moving toward the door.

"I will make sure to eat it," I say to his retreating back.

Minerva does not believe the spell is the cause, but she did say that the spell accessed the 'primal part' of my mind. The part that drove me to attack Potter today like an ignorant Muggle. One need not be a mediwizard to know that lack of sleep can lead to irrational actions, as well. Whatever the cause, I must be the master of it more now than ever.

My cabinet is empty of Dreamless Sleep, so I take a weaker draught that should still help me sleep the night through, regardless of my alcohol intake or the unease of my thoughts. I wonder if I should have offered the same to Potter before he left, but it is too late for that now.

My dreams are dark and vague, as usual. The one image that stays with me as I wake is a sense-memory of rubbing my face against the rough, dark cloth of someone's robes.

I realize with a start that what has woken me is the sound of footsteps. Potter is there, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. "Potter?" At the sound of my voice, the charms which illuminate the room come up softly.

He rounds on me. "Snape." He is panting, his eyes ablaze and half-mad. He is fully dressed but without robes and he clambers toward me over the bed. "Don't make me do this, too."

"Do what? Potter, surely you cannot blame your adolescent state of arousal on me." I am neither erect nor interested.

His hand sliding over the blanket, directly over my cock, changes that somewhat. "Snape," he says, his voice low and threatening. "You may be able to lie to yourself about this, but not to me."

His hand, Merlin's beard, the palm of his hand is sliding up and down and I am at full tumescence for the first time in years. "I..." I should be ashamed. I should be mortified. But he has made me so hard and so wanting so quickly that the primal part of my mind's voice is much louder than any other.

I am growling aloud, arching into his touch, which he firms by curling his fingers. And then he is in motion, burrowing and tearing at the bedcovers until his bare fingers snake around my bare cock.

I am trying to speak and failing. Too much of my body is trembling and my lungs will not draw a decent breath as he strokes me, softly now, softly, pushing my arousal higher as he teases.

I realize that he is hard, as well, as I feel his denim-covered leg wrap around mine. Well, it is as Minerva said. When I am hungry, he will be hungry. He wraps his mouth around one of my nipples and this makes my hips buck encouragingly. His hand tightens and speeds up and I hear his voice as he lets my nipple go and speaks into my hair. "Come on, Snape."

I am so close, and yet it is as if my body has forgotten how to do this. How do you get past that stage where everything is as taut as can be and you want to so very much and yet...?

"Tell me how you like it," he demands. "Is this good?"

"I, yes, I..." But I cannot say more.

He growls in frustration then and dips his head under the sheet, and in the next instant I know I am in his mouth, his hand still working furiously as he sucks on the head, hot and wet and perhaps it is the absolutely ridiculous idea that _Harry Potter_ is sucking me off that convinces my body to finally let go.

I come in spurts, silently, my throat closed--his mouth gone now but his hand continuing to milk me, to be sure that I am wrung dry. Then there is that blankness in my mind, post-orgasm, which I hate, but it is blissfully short. I open my eyes when I hear the clicking sound of his belt buckle, as he tears open his trousers and pulls anxiously on his own erection now, his hand slick with my come. His head thrown back as he tugs with vicious speed until he too, is spurting, groaning, falling forward so that his other hand props him above me as he finishes.

And then he is up, out of the bed, fastening his clothes. "Get some sleep," he says, and then again I am looking at his back as he leaves once more.

Minerva said there was no obedience charm in the spell, but I follow his command before I can really think about what has just occurred. My body is far too languid to allow my mind any leeway in this regard, and the potion, too, still runs in my veins. I sleep and leave my feelings about the matter for the morning.


	7. Chapter 7

Hero Worship, Chapter Seven  
Ravenna C. Tan

In the morning I am not sure whether to be livid, horrified, or mortified, especially in light of the fact that in the deepest, most Slytherin recesses of my mind (or perhaps my groin) I am plotting a way to make it happen again. Merlin help me, but I am. Knowing so does little to impede the thoughts which spring up at odd times despite my best efforts to quash them.

I go to breakfast in the Great Hall, where I eat with the few other Order members and some mediwizards who are prepping the infirmary to become a full-on medical ward for the war. Potter walks in looking a bit rumpled and the instant I see him my cock twitches as if his hand is wrapped around it from afar.

This will not do. For more reasons than I can list, this will not do at all. I take a hasty leave as he comes to the table, his eyes not on my cock but on my plate. He sees I have eaten and gives me a half-nod without meeting my eyes as I sweep up the space between the tables, away from him.

When he comes into the Room of Requirement, I have clamped down on my libido completely and there is nary a twitch or tic on my part. I have already written a new set of spells on the blackboard.

" _Pulso Abscondito_?" he asks, as he throws himself down on a tuffet. His hair is stuck out at all angles as usual, but as he crosses his ankles and slouches a bit I notice for the first time how little like a boy he looks. He will turn seventeen soon, I know that, but the way he carries himself is no longer like a schoolboy.

We are comrades in arms now, I remind myself, then wince inwardly at the pun. Somewhere Albus' ghost should be laughing. I forge ahead with the lesson before my mind strays any further. "You may recall being stunned by a particularly powerful blow the other night, one that did not announce itself the way _Stupefy_ does, with a jet of bright light. If I remember the order of our duel correctly, you were attempting to use _Levicorpus_ on me when I hit you with _Pulso Abscondito._ "

He nods, his eyes shifting left and right as he goes over his memories of the duel, one-sided as it was.

"Loosely translated, one might call it the Hidden Hammer," I continue. "The Secret Strike."

"Which one was the one that felt like a whip across my face?" he asks, yet his voice is surprisingly void of the anger I expect.

"This one." I point to _Ardeoflagello._ "There is a basic _Flagellum_ spell, and any whipping burns, but this one in particular, especially if you can catch your opponent in the eyes, can be quite debilitating." I do not tell him that if applied lightly, on the back or buttocks, that it is intensely pleasurable to some people, though the plotting part of my brain is urging me to.

"What's wrong?" he asks, frowning at me.

"Nothing."

"Your cheeks are red. Really, Snape, it's unusual for you to be more embarrassed than me about something."

"I am not embarrassed."

"But you are hiding something."

I grip my wand between my two hands and take a moment to search the ceiling. "Potter, I thought part of the whole purpose of using a guardian charm was that I could keep at least some of my thoughts to myself."

He has the nerve to laugh. "Who said that? Kingsley? No, it's that we figured no matter what we did, you were going to Occlude successfully anyway. But Argus does let me know when you're not telling me something. A very useful trick to have with children, I'd imagine."

So he wants to fight. Still. Yet he's right when he says it is unusual for me to be more embarrassed than him. I've always been able to play that card against him. "Very well, Potter. The nefarious information I am withholding from you is this. I did not originally develop _Ardeoflagello_ for dueling purposes. I had a lover, a fellow Slytherin, and it behooved us to find a magical means of pleasure. When one is already capable of orgasm from the sensation of being whipped, the charm intensifies that experience a ten-fold. And before you think I am withholding even a scrap of information, his name was Evan Rosier, and if you must know, yes, he was a Death Eater and he is _long dead._ "

I say this last with a vitriol that burns like acid in my chest, instantly soothed as I see I have won this round. Potter is blushing furiously and looks quite chagrined to have brought the topic up.

I let him stew in it and carry on. "You must commit these incantations to memory. I will write them each morning if you need them, and then erase them. They must never be written down anywhere."

"Because the Ministry...?"

"So that the Dark Lord will have no inkling of your abilities!" Potter's inability to focus on our single goal appalls me. "Now that he has lost me as a spy, do you not think he will try to replace me? A list of your weapons would be an asset to him indeed. He has never seen most of these hexes performed. The ability to surprise one's opponent on the battlefield is perhaps the most crucial ability you must develop. That means hiding your intent utterly by Occluding, choosing the right spells to keep him off balance, never allowing him to guess correctly what you might do next."

He nods and for some reason this angers me more. How can he be so placid? How can it be that he has mastered his anger before I have mastered mine? I force myself to take a deep breath and return to the lesson plan.

I hand him a piece of parchment and a quill, since it's clear he has none, and he transfigures a nearby tuffet into a writing desk. I choose my words carefully, reminding myself that my goal here is not to antagonize. I try to phrase it as a request, rather than a command. "I would like it if you would try to remember all the jinxes and spells you cast the other night, and in what situations. Please note which were successful and which were not. And, if you can, try to put them in chronological order. I will do the same."

I turn to look behind me--there is a decent teacher's desk, looking as if it has been there all along. I sit behind it and begin compiling my own list.

His quill is scratching for quite some time and I realize he had quite a busy night of it.

He hands me the parchment when I walk to him and hand him mine. I study it carefully.

 _  
Petrificus Totalis -- large Death Eater on Astronomy Tower, aimed at his back, successful  
Petrificus again -- Fenrir, during close attack, successful  
Impedimenta -- Amycus, five to ten yards, successful  
Everbero -- the big blond, ten yards, successful  
Impedimenta -- Alecto, at a hundred yards, successful  
Stupefy -- at S.S. back, missed  
Crucio -- blocked  
Crucio again? -- blocked  
Incarcerous -- blocked  
Stupefy -- blocked  
Impedimenta -- blocked  
Sectumsempra -- blocked  
Levicorpus -- blocked  
_

"Mr. Potter," I say, leaning against the edge of my desk, "your memory is excellent."

He again has that look of surprised resentment that I have complimented him. "Or at least it matches yours."

"Granted." Cheeky, but correct. The paper in his hands outlines the duel from my point of view, including the Shield Charms I used.

Looking over the list, my feeling of melancholy returns. That it should have come to this, Albus' death, and so much else gone wrong... my anger is doused thoroughly. I levitate my chair next to his and sit down beside him. "I would like to go through the events of the evening, step by step, asking you questions and commenting, but before I do, there is something I need to say."

He meets my eyes.

"I appreciate that this is difficult territory for us to discuss. If at any point you feel it's... too much, all I ask is that you tell me so, and we'll stop."

"I can get through it if you can," he says, puffed up with Gryffindor bravado.

"I was going to ask the same courtesy of you," I reply evenly.

"Oh." He lets his shoulders sag. "All right then."

I remind myself that I am the master of my emotions and plunge in. "You have marked many of these as 'successful.' What is your definition of that?"

His eyes are startlingly green this close up and I wonder why I don't recall that from last night. Then I remember my eyes were shut so tightly, and the lights so dim... I tell my libido to get out of the classroom. Potter is speaking. "Well, they hit the mark. This one went down, this one, too..." He is pointing to the names on the list.

I know of no way to say this that will not sound like a criticism. "And yet they escaped. Every one. Even Fenrir. And your strike to this one barely slowed him down."

"Well, your Hammer thing didn't keep me down very long."

"Yes, but, remember, I was trying not to hurt you."

"Oh, right." He looks upward, checking his anger again. "You think I'm weak. My spells were weak."

"You did quite well for a largely untrained student..."

"I'd practiced those spells so many times Fifth Year!" He sounds angry with himself now, as if it is his own fault for not practicing hard enough.

I ignore the fact that he interrupted me. "'Dumbledore's Army,'" I say, softly.

"Yeah."

I wish we had a few cups of tea to fill the awkward silences with, and of course there is a pot just out of my line of sight, over on the large desk. I pour two cups and bring them back.

I sit again. "You practiced on your fellow students, am I right?"

"Yeah. Well, and pillows and things that the Room came up with." He glances around.

I am trying to do this gently. "You are not a weak wizard. But could your spells have been stronger? I believe so. I believe that by practicing on your fellow students you gauged the amount of power to use... a bit too low."

"You mean, I learned to pull my punches?"

"Exactly." I take a sip of tea, and he does, too, as the realization sinks in. "You already know the adage, that to cast an Unforgivable, you must truly _mean_ it. What no one will tell you is that the same is true of all offensive spells."

"No one except you, you mean."

"Granted. This does not mean that your hexes were badly done. They worked up to a point. And we know that you have the ability to do harm..."

"We do?"

I clear my throat and take a sip of tea. "As when you slashed Malfoy."

The color which had been absent from his face for the past few minutes returns in full force. "Except that I didn't know how badly it was going to hurt him."

I had not considered that. "Perhaps you truly do pull your so-called punches then."

"Well, I really don't want to hurt people. Not really." He looks pained.

"And yet you tried to cast _Sectumsempra_ on me, toward the end."

"When I was desperate and angry," he says, his hands balled into fists, though I don't think he realizes it.

My stomach clenches as I realize I am coming to the lesson I want to teach least. But who was going to corrupt the boy if not me? Certainly not Dumbledore. It seems too soon to have come to this topic, but I cannot let the moment pass. "As you know, your anger can be like a shield, but it can also be like a flame, easy for your opponent to see, difficult for you to control."

"I know that," he says impatiently.

"Good. A much more effective offense is cold, rather than hot. But whether you are cold or hot when you cast an Unforgivable, you must know and accept within your heart completely that what you do is evil. It is our very definition of same. To remove another person's will. To cause them unspeakable pain. To end their life. If you do not embrace the idea and accept that you are committing an act of evil, your Curses will be weak and ineffectual." I leave unspoken the rest, which is that if you do embrace it, you corrupt your soul. Forever. But let that be a lesson for another time. "Let us look at the duel."

I hold the page between us. "If you had hit me with that first Stunner, I wonder what might have happened?"

"Probably nothing," he says. "If I thought you were down for the count, I would have rushed to help Hagrid, and Kingsley still would have caught you."

"Perhaps," I say. "Or maybe when you turned away, Malfoy would have snatched my body away, or even Ennervated me. But, as you now know, it is difficult to aim downhill, especially at a moving target."

"Got it," he says, as if taking mental notes.

"Now. You went straight for the Cruciatus Curse and I blocked it."

"Flicked it aside like a minor annoyance is more like." He steals a sidelong glance at me, to see my reaction.

"Well, yes. Because not only did you telegraph the spell, you didn't quite have the necessary commitment behind it. Now, why did you switch to something as innocuous as _Incarcerous_ next?"

He bites his lip. "I was hoping, actually, that it would be more of a diversionary tactic, that you were probably going to block the ropes but that they might have distracted you for one moment so I could get off the Stunner."

I school the surprise off my face, but I am sure he feels it just the same. Damn caretaker charm. "Impressive. And here I was preparing a lecture about the value of thinking more than one step ahead, as in a chess match. So when you tried _Stupefy_ next, you had already planned it?"

"Um, yeah. That was as far as the plan went, though. And you blocked the _Incarcerous_ before I even finished it. I... I didn't even realize that was possible."

I nod. It is something I will teach him later. "So then why _Impedimenta_ next?"

"Because it had worked well that night, and I thought, well, here's one where I know I am on my game, maybe he won't be able to deflect this one so easily."

"A sound strategy, though in my case it did not work. And then you went to the non-standard spells?" The two of my own invention.

"Um, yeah. I thought maybe _Sectumsempra_ would take you by surprise, and I was so angry I really did want to slash you to ribbons by that point, and then I tried _Levicorpus_ because..." His voice falls silent and I see him struggling with himself over something.

"You are not the only one who can tell when someone is hiding something," I say to nudge him.

"All right! All right! I tried it because I knew that it was a spell that... m-my dad used on you, and I thought m-maybe if it worked for him, maybe it would work for me, too. But it didn't! You threw it back in my face!" He stands up and paces to the far side of the room, one fist pressed against his lips.

He stalks back, breathing hard and looking nothing like James Potter in this moment, with tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

I find I cannot look at his face. I look at his feet instead. "That was also... an admirable attempt," I manage. "In the face of imminent defeat, that type of creative thinking can truly turn the tide."

There. I have praised him at every turn. And why? Because he deserved it. I am fairly astonished. I had thought his strategy nothing more than trying hexes at random, but it would appear there is more to Potter than I thought. He still has not moved. "You are already a more sophisticated opponent than the Dark Lord will ever expect," I say. "He will underestimate you, and that will be to your advantage. But if I could defeat you, I daresay he can."

He nods, arms now hanging at his sides and... I wonder when he took his wand in hand? "I'm ready to learn whatever you have to teach me."

I take a deep breath and get to my feet, but I do not draw my wand. "I think a spot of lunch is in order first. We can try a little hands-on after that."

"Okay." He slips his wand into his robes and a half-smile curves his lips upward.

"Is something amusing?"

"Yeah." His eyes are still a bit sad, but he makes a try at lightening the mood. "That went far better than it had any right to, don't you think?"

Yes, that is exactly what I think.


	8. Chapter 8

Hero Worship, Chapter Eight  
Ravenna C. Tan

 

Using jinxes that will not cause harm, I begin teaching him to block more effectively. I can see he is burning to know how I was able to flick his attacks aside with such seeming ease.

We stand facing each other in the Room of Requirement, now empty but for a very large and well-padded rug, wands at the ready. "I already know your Shield Charm is quite strong," I say.

His eyebrows knot in puzzlement.

"From your Occlumency lessons." Why I reminded him of that just now, I do not know. I try to turn it into praise, as it is meant. "You were able to not only block my attempt at Legilimency, but you turned the spell on me."

His cheeks are pink but he does not sound angry when he says: "I remember."

"Humor me for demonstration's sake, though, and block the jinx I throw." I fling a Jelly-Legs Jinx at him with a flourish of my wand--making the attack obvious--and he blocks it, as I expected. "Your Shield Charm is both large and strong. It could block many hexes much worse than what I just cast. Now, if you knew this was only a Jelly-Legs Jinx, would you have flung up such a barrier?"

"Well, probably. I always do it that way."

"And it works. But if you always put so much into every one, you will have little time or energy left for counter-attacking, and you can be worn down easily by multiple opponents. If you can tailor your response based on what is coming, you can conserve energy."

"And demoralize your opponent." He smirks in a rather Slytherin way.

"Precisely."

"But how do you know how much to put into it? How do you tell?"

"This part, unfortunately, takes practice. There is no way to tell you what to do. It's something you will need to develop a feel for yourself, through repeated tries." I raise my wand. "Ready?"

We spend the better part of the next hour in practice, but the moment I make my wand movements more subtle and the jinxes more complex, he can only block me by reverting to the all-or-nothing approach. I know we've had enough when I catch him around the ankles with a Tripping Charm and he falls flat on his face. The rug saves him from serious harm, but his dignity is bruised.

I am torn between wanting to rush to his side to help him--which a certain voice in the back of my head is encouraging me strongly to do, anything to bring my body close to his--and not wanting to make it seem as if he needs the help. Surely he is humiliated enough. So I hang back.

He gets to his knees slowly and straightens his glasses. For a moment I think he is going to shout at me. But the moment passes, and he says instead, "Lockhart really didn't know what he was getting himself into with you." He chuckles.

I keep my smile inside as I go over to help him to his feet. "I think that's enough for now." His palm, like his hair, is damp with sweat.

It's the scent of him that undoes me. He looks up into my eyes and I hate, _hate_ the thought that he knows what I am thinking. But his hand is still in mine, keeping me close.

"Why do you think we're getting along so much better today?" he nearly whispers.

"Because we've refrained from goading each other," I reply. "Much. And we have remained focused on our mutual goal." I yank my hand from his and turn away.

He wants to be the hero. "Snape, you can't tell me..."

"Stop. There is no situation, including the defeat of the Dark Lord, that justifies a sixteen-year-old..." _putting his hands on the cock of..._ "touching a man old enough to be his father."

"But you need..."

"I'll take care of it myself, thank you." Lust is such a nuisance of an emotion, but at least it has a release valve. "Your assistance is not required."

"See that you do." His voice is sharp and I almost turn so I can see the expression on his face. "Tonight, Snape."

"Very well." I stand like a statue until I hear the door close behind him.

He does not appear at dinner and I eat sparingly but enough to prevent him making any unannounced visits to my chambers tonight. When I am alone by the fire in my study, though, I realize that if I do not get it over with, he may charge down here after all.

I undress and get into bed, though it is not yet half nine.

It is a long time since I've done this. Even as an adolescent I did not "polish the broom handle" nearly as often as the other boys in my dormitory. I have never liked the moment of blankness that comes with release, that feeling of losing one's self. The total vulnerability of it.

But I used to sometimes think about Evan, after he had left school and joined the Dark Lord. I used to imagine it was his hand, stealing toward me under the covers, cupping my balls briefly before taking a gentle hold on my foreskin. Evan had many flaws, but his technique and enthusiasm for erotic pursuits were not among them.

I slide my foreskin into my palm, as I try to remember what Evan's touch felt like. I am hardening as I imagine it, Evan's breath in my ear as he strokes me, as he coaxes me to my full length. The sheets rasp against the sensitive head of my cock, and I want to press up against him--but his hand is still moving, stroking, making me arch.

I was not there, the night he died, which was probably fortunate for me. I was new to the Death Eaters, still establishing myself in the Dark Lord's service, and my control was not as good as it is now. Lucius described it to me later, the gruesome things done to him, to punish Evan's father who was a Death Eater as well, for some failure. The elder Rosier had been forced not only to watch, but to participate in his son's destruction. Our trysts had ended when he left school, so a little time had passed, but I doubt at that time I could have hidden my feelings from the Dark Lord completely.

Damn him. My cock lies wilted in my fingers. I curl onto my side. I need an image that can erase the ones in my mind of Evan Rosier being tortured to death. Unfortunately, the one thing that burns brighter is the look on Albus' face as he begged me to go through with it.

I cannot do this. For two decades I have maintained a double-facade and it is what held me together. Now my masks are stripped away and there is no hiding from what I have done.

I calm myself with thoughts of teaching Potter. If he becomes frustrated with blocking practice, perhaps I will set up some moving targets for him to hex. And he must learn, at last, to Occlude. Soon.

I drift to sleep making a lesson plan for the next two weeks.


	9. Chapter 9

Hero Worship, Chapter Nine  
by Ravenna C. Tan

Progress the next morning is good. When I arrive at the Room of Requirement, he surprises me by already having written a good three-quarters of the forbidden spells on the board correctly. His memory, apparently, is not half-bad when he is sufficiently motivated. He improves his ability to read my attacks and deflect them. We eat lunch in the room rather than the Great Hall, in what I feel is companionable silence.

It is only when the elves are clearing the dishes and he clears his throat nervously that I sense he has been trying to keep from saying something.

"Yes, Potter, what is it?"

"You, um. I know you didn't come last night."

I drop my forehead into the cradle of my fingers, then look up. "And how, pray tell, do you know that?"

"You said you were going to take care of it." His voice has an edge of anger in it. He feels I broke my promise.

"I did. I tried. I know it might come as a shock to you, but the flesh is not always willing." I fold my hands together. "You haven't answered my question."

"What question?"

"It was not rhetorical when I asked how you knew. Argus certainly should not allow you to spy on me in such detail." My nostrils flare and I realize I am about to accuse him of spying on me by other means. I did not agree to that. The bloody Order might see me as no better than a prisoner, but I did not consent to be treated as one. "So how did you know?"

His face is red, but with embarrassment, not anger. "I just know. The spell does let me know some things."

"Potter. I know a great deal more than you about Argus and other guardian spells at this point." I have not shared the folio that Minerva lent me with him.

"Then you should be able to guess it for yourself," he answers, folding his arms over his chest in a gesture I realize he has copied from me. In fact, that tone of his voice is probably his version of my smugness. "May I suggest you try a bit harder tonight, Snape?" Oh yes, definitely mimicking me.

"Or you'll give me detention, Professor Potter?" I am already moving to write the afternoon's lesson on the board, my way of ending the discussion. "Take fifty points from Slytherin?"

When I turn back to look at his face, it is unreadable. He relents. "So when are we going to work on Occlumency?"

He sounds not at all eager, but if I am realistic about our mutual goal I realize that it is the most vital of all the skills he must master. "We can begin now, if you like."

He swallows. "If it takes me a long time..."

"Yes, it's best we get started." I suggest we sit facing each other on tuffets, as I recall him falling down quite a lot in our previous lessons.

I must have been truly angry with him then. I was so hell bent on punishing him for being a willful, stubborn thorn in my side that I let him leave with his knees and sometimes his noggin quite bruised. I feel a pang of guilt, not so much over his bruises as the fact that just the other day I was crowing to myself about how I had never lifted a hand against him, never resorted to physical violence.

I am despicable. I am used to it. I set the feeling aside, wondering how much of it he was able to read.

"Wand at the ready," I say, my voice softer than usual. "I'd like you to read my mind first."

"What?" He looks unhappy about this turn of events.

"You'll do it twice. The first time I will not Occlude. The second time, I will. I think experiencing the difference may help you to intuit how to build your own mental shield."

"Oh." I can see the flare of anger as it passes his face and he shoves it away.

"Please, Potter. What is it?"

"Nothing. Just... why didn't you have me try it this way the last time?"

"The last time, you may recall, there were things I did not wish you to see, to the point that I used a Pensieve to remove them from my mind." Not that it did me any good, you little prick. That thought remains unspoken, of course, though he looks rebuked enough from my mere mention of the Pensieve. "I find that, given the direness of our circumstances, I no longer care particularly what you see." Not to mention the fact that you have already seen half the miseries of my life I intended to keep private. "Also, since the failure to teach you then, I have given a great deal of thought as to what might be more effective methods." Indeed, I am nearly ashamed to think back on those "lessons," which now seem as though they were little more than an excuse for me to torment him.

He looks unsure as to whether he can consider what I have just said any kind of apology or admission of wrongdoing on my part.

"I hope this way will be better," I conclude. "Now, please. Proceed. Briefly," I emphasize. No need to let him think I will let him muck about in my memories as long as he likes.

In the next moment I am awash in the jumble of images he pulls forth. Albus, Evan, both so close to the surface of my thoughts these days. But he obeys, breaks off, and then sits blinking at me.

"Now, try again, and I will block you. I want you to really try, Potter."

"Okay," he says, wand up.

He casts the spell nonverbally--he knows if he doesn't that I'll castigate him--and without moving his wand much. I feel him, battering at my mind like a moth trapped behind a window.

He breaks off after a few minutes, sweat making his forehead shine. "That was weird."

I quirk my head at him in question.

"It was like I could tell your thoughts were there, but I couldn't reach them or touch them like before. It was like they were behind glass."

I nod. "If I empty my mind completely, you'll see nothing at all but the glass itself. But in the middle of a duel, one rarely has time or focus to empty completely. The glass, as you have termed it, must shield what is within, no matter how much pressure comes from either within or without." I raise my wand. "When you form the shell around your own thoughts, perhaps that image will help you."

"You never told me to think of it as a shell before." The accusation is barely muted in his voice.

"That is because you were being a willful brat and refusing to practice."

"How do you know I was refusing to practice?"

I am on my feet. "Perhaps the fact that I was reading your mind on a regular basis, Potter? You thought yourself so clever, did you? But in the end, you craved the dreams the Dark Lord gave you. You tasted the bait and you wanted more. You wanted to breach the mystery. Can you deny it?"

He stands with his wand hand shaking. "I... I..."

"You refused my help of your own accord," I spit. "And your willfulness led you directly into his trap! You rushed off to protect your precious godfather, only to have hubris strike..."

The sudden burning sensation across my face causes me to flail aside, my wand striking back even as my free hand goes to my eyes. But then my wand flies from my hand, and the next thing that hits me is Potter himself, his entire body tackling mine and sending us both to the rug.

Blinded as I am, I cannot do much but grab at his hands, his face, but he lands a blow so hard that it makes me see stars.

Then he rolls off of me and begins to retch.

I sit up, Summon my wand to my hand, and clear my vision. He is on all fours, heaving. Apparently, Argus will not allow him to abuse me in such a manner.

He sits back on his heels, spittle dripping from the corner of his mouth. There are tears coming out of his eyes, too, but I cannot tell if he is crying or if it is merely the force of expelling the contents of his stomach that have caused them to leak. "I'm sorry," he says, and there is such self-loathing in his words that I want to shrink back.

Instead, I cast a Cleaning Charm.

"You're right," he says. "It's my fault Sirius is dead."

I sigh. "Please do recall that, although you played a part in his demise, it is ultimately the Dark Lord's head upon whom the blame must be placed."

"Bloody convenient," he snaps. "Just blame the devil."

"You're a bit overwrought and I think perhaps we ought to break for today." I get to my feet and brush my robes, though there is nothing to brush from them.

He clutches his stomach, looking miserable and defeated.

"Come with me to the dungeon. I have something that will settle your stomach and then you can eat something."

He nods and follows.


	10. Chapter 10

Hero Worship, Chapter Ten  
By Ravenna C. Tan

He soon feels better--not that I doubted the restorative power of my work nor the comforting food brought by the house elves. But his face still looks somewhat drained as he sits with his head leaning back against the overstuffed chair by the hearth, eyes on the ceiling.

Those eyes meet mine as he realizes I am staring at him and not at the book in my lap.

I had not realized I was staring, either.

His voice is faint, like he's afraid to wake the dragon in the next room. "Will you tell me about Evan Rosier?"

I close my eyes and my book simultaneously. "What would you like to know?"

My eyes are closed, yet I can _hear_ him blushing. "Oh, you know. Everything."

Indeed. He already knows we were lovers, kinky ones at that, and that the man is dead. "Do you have a sadistic streak, Potter? Or do you imagine that I would enjoy dredging up memories of a..."

"Forget it." He stands. "I didn't mean... that wasn't..." He makes a sound of frustration that makes me open my eyes.

"Then what did you mean by asking?"

He sits, heavily. "I, um, I have these memories of him, these images, that came out of your head today. And I'd like to understand them a bit better."

I tamp down the urge to bristle. I invited him in, after all, both figuratively and literally. "Drink your tea," I say, pouring another cup for him with a wave of my wand. "And I'll tell you a little."

He sips in acquiescence to the terms.

"In those days, Slytherin House had a strict hierarchy not only of one class over another, but within each group of classmates. Things are somewhat more relaxed now. There is still a pecking order, but it is no longer engraved in silver above the mantelpiece in the common room." I Summon a teacup for myself. "Rosier was three years ahead of me. Slytherin also had a sort of... apprenticeship program where each first year would be mentored by an older student."

Potter has not blinked; he is rapt. "He was yours?"

"Yes. The hierarchy was maintained by a system of points similar to what we use inter-house, only it was a purely individual thing. Well, except that if one had an apprentice, the apprentice's points accrued to the mentoring student. First years had no standing at all, you see. This was motivation for the older students to take on first years."

He catches on quickly. "But if you did something wrong, would that lose your mentor points as well?"

"Of course. Anything which hurt the House, like serving detention, was counted against the individual as well. But doing well on exams, Quidditch, all the usual things, could earn one acclaim and status." I sip the tea, weak for his tetchy stomach but acceptable, and choose my next words carefully. "Though there was sometimes a choice of whether to lose points or to... pay the price."

"With money?" He draws his eyebrows together and I wonder if he has some of my memories of Lucius, as well.

"No, no. I had spilled Professor Durbin's inkwell in Transfiguration and lost the house ten points, I believe. I was terribly ashamed that my clumsiness would cause him to lose standing--I was nearly in tears as I told him, if you can believe that." Of course, he can, I realize. He's seen this in my memory. "Rosier had a rival--I cannot remember his name now--who was very close to him in the standings and I recall staying ahead of him being very important to Rosier." It seems very long ago because it was. "He explained that if I were willing to take a spanking in front of the whole house, and the prefects approved of my... comportment, then the points would be restored."

His mouth hangs open. He clearly cannot imagine anything more horrible. "But you were eleven years old!"

"I was twelve by then," I correct. "It was almost spring and I'd turned twelve in January. At first I was a bit put off by the prospect." I had been terrified, actually. "But then he told me he would be the one to administer the beating."

"And that was better?" Potter's voice nearly squeaks.

"Quite. I trusted Rosier. He had been a very good mentor and had become somewhat... protective of me." I see Potter is processing this news. "I told him I would do whatever he wished. He got angry for a moment--I'll never forget this, because I was so upset that I had angered him. It confused me that he hadn't gotten angry over the spilled ink, but now he was angry because I told him to decide my fate? He then made it very clear to me that if he was going to go through with beating me in front of the whole house, I had better damn well be sure that it was because I decided to do it for myself, so I would know that it was my choice to be there. Otherwise, he said, I'd resent him, hate him, and find a way to blame him for it."

"And you went through with it?"

"I think you know the answer to that already." I watch the flush rise from Potter's cheeks to the line of his hair as he turns the memory over in his mind. It was done with much pomp and circumstance, the entire house gathered and silent in the common room. I remember how solemn the prefects were as they took my outer robes. I felt bolstered by this, somehow, as if the fact that they took my punishment so seriously raised my worth. In fact, it did raise my estimation in many of my housemates' eyes.

"And it... oh my God." He puts his hand over his mouth. "You got an erection."

"While stretched over his lap, yes." I sip my tea.

"You were in love with him?"

He is almost seventeen and still uses "love" in that indiscriminate, teenage way. "Infatuated is a better word. I was only twelve and 'love' wasn't in my vocabulary as such. At that point it was merely... hero worship."

"But did you...?"

"No. It was years before things turned explicit." His eyes are turned toward me, but he is still looking inward, at the images in his mind. "Have I satisfied your curiosity about Mr. Rosier?"

He brings me into startled focus. "Um, yes. I guess." His foot taps and he stills it.

I cross the room to lay my hand on his forehead. He is not feverish. "You still look a bit drained."

He swallows and avoids my gaze. "I think perhaps I should go have a nap. And then maybe dinner."

My eyes narrow. He is so transparent, it's clear he harbors some ulterior motive. Perhaps it's simply that he would rather not spend all his time trapped with me.

He stands a bit more steadily than the last time. "We can get back to work tomorrow, after breakfast."

"As you wish," I say, without any detectable trace of irony.


	11. Chapter 11

Hero Worship, Chapter Eleven  
By Ravenna C. Tan

I am determined to be there before him the next day, but I do not manage it. We converge in the hallway outside the door to the Room, and enter together.

Today he writes the entire list and then erases it with a wipe of his wand. "Which one did you use on me yesterday?" he asks, no hint of anger in his voice at all.

"Not one on this list," I say, and then turn the questioning to him. "Which of the flagellation spells was that you struck me with?"

He stutters, but manages " _Ardeoflagello._ "

"Your aim was either lucky or quite accurate."

"I did, um, practice a bit. In the evenings."

I stare at him. This is simply not the same lazy, mediocre student I am used to. But the events of recent weeks have changed us all irreparably. He toes the carpet as if he's ashamed of his newfound studiousness.

"Oh, and I think you should come to the meeting today." He looks up with hesitation in his eyes. "The report on the decryption of Dumbledore's journals. You should be there."

"Do you think it wise?" I cannot help it. The sarcasm creeps into my voice whenever he presumes to take charge.

"Yes. If you're supposedly a part of the Order, still, and supposedly helping us with the hunt for the Horcruxes, then yeah, you should be there. That is if the whole thing of putting you under Argus isn't just a sham to... to..."

To provide The Boy Who Lived with a tacitly acceptable outlet for his urge for revenge on Dumbledore's killer? Ha. "To merely assuage the guilt of those Order members who would worry about me pining away in a dungeon cell?"

"Um, yeah." He scrubs at his hair. "So... Occlumency?"

I nod. We take our seats near the floor, wands out. "I'll try not to push very hard the first time. This isn't like throwing off Imperius, which is simply a battle of wills. This is about self-control. At its core, Occlumency may be one of the most ultimate forms of self-control."

"No wonder you're so good at it, and I'm so terrible," he says.

I let the comment pass, unremarked upon. But he is right. He is an impulsive Gryffindor with a tendency to fly off the handle, have tantrums and mood swings. I remind myself again that he is young, but that we do not have the luxury of waiting for him to grow up before he has to face the Dark Lord. " _Legilimens_ ," I say softly, so he can anticipate the moment the spell will touch him.

I feel the squirming of his will, as he flails to keep me out, but he is battering at me rather than blocking my advance. I pluck a thought from his head and withdraw.

"That was..." I begin the description of his attempt and then I stop as I register what I am seeing.

He is on his stomach, one hand trapped beneath his cock, thrusting against his slippery palm and crying out in frustrated agony on every stroke. This memory is recent. Very recent. His other hand grips the bedcovers so tightly it is as if the muscles of his arm have been Petrified. His cries are desperate, pained, his entire body wracked with shuddering need, until he finally falls limp, too exhausted and sore to go on, his eyelashes wet with unshed tears.

He sees none of this on my face. I am a blank wall as I realize that I have done this to him. Argus recognizes my needs more than I do. And my guardian cannot satisfy his own needs, until I do. His evasion of my question of how he knew I had not done as he ordered is now clear.

The talk about Rosier suddenly makes sense, as well. A clever, but ineffective attempt to get me thinking about my old lover, to arouse me. No wonder he hurried off after that, to give me some time to myself.

"Your cousin was quite a bully," I say dryly, to make him think I've seen one of those memories of his cousin flushing his head down a toilet.

He narrows his eyes. "Argus tells me if you are lying to me, Snape."

"My state of mind is not the subject of this lesson. Yours is, Potter." I roll my wand in my fingers. "That was an admirable first attempt, but you must collect your forces, solidify them, not let them fly around. Do you remember what my resistance to you felt like? Think about it."

He takes a deep breath, and I notice the dark rings under his eyes once again. Lack of sleep will certainly make it more difficult for him to concentrate, but we must practice.

I cast the spell again, but I've unsettled him. He's trying to figure out what I'm hiding instead of emptying his thoughts. It is easier than ever to slip in.

"Dammit," he swears and presses his hands to his head as if he can stop his thoughts from leaking that way.

This time it _is_ mostly rubbish about his bullying cousin. I blink it away. "Try to read me again. This time I'll close my mind to you as you are doing it."

"All right." He takes another steeling breath, then thins his lips and I know he is trying it nonverbally.

I keep my eyes open, but let my shields close slowly, like the great front gate in the entrance hall. He suddenly shudders and blinks, shaking his head.

I wait for him to open his eyes before I speak. "Did you..."

He blurts out, "You're hard."

"Barely, and that is hardly a main concern at this moment, Mr. Potter."

"Don't you 'mister' me. Snape, you're practically dying for it and I’m--"

"Contrary to your teenage beliefs, one won't die of an erection and--"

"Sick and tired of your evasions when you could be--"

"We have more important things to tend to, in case you hadn't noticed--"

"You're the most two-faced bastard who kills and tortures for _him,_ but your morals won't allow you to--"

"And it takes much more than the masturbatory fantasies of a teenager to _arouse_ my interest, thank you very much!" This time it is I who makes the dramatic exit. Whenever we devolve to shouting at one another, it is the only solution. And it is better than resorting to violence which, as we've seen, has negative consequences of its own. I slam the door behind me and stalk the corridors until I have finished replaying everything I just said over and over in my head.

I find myself on the steps outside the entrance hall. I sit. The summer breeze is lovely, the late-morning sun turning the hillsides to brilliant green. For a moment it doesn't seem possible that this can be the world in which a deranged, power-hungry madman is waiting to take our lives.

I adjust my robes. I am half-hard, still. Anger increases blood circulation. The image of Potter desperately, vainly fucking his own palm swims behind my eyelids. Who was he fantasizing about? I decide the next time I penetrate his mind, I will find out. If he is going to have this knowledge of my needs to hold over me, I want the same advantage over him.

He appears suddenly before me, tumbling forward and colliding with me, from a position on a lower stair, his chin bruising mine. He loses his footing again and there he is in my lap, pushing himself away, his scramble ceasing only after he has put four or five feet between us.

"It's time for the meeting," he says. He shrugs his robe into place and something else becomes clear to me. He has never preferred robes to Muggle clothes. I had wondered if this was part of some maturing of his self-image, symbolic of his passage into adulthood in the Wizarding world. I now realize he wears them because they are one of the few garments that allows a wizard to hide his tumescence.

I am grateful of this feature myself at the moment, though I have the self-control to reduce the problem somewhat. "Lead the way," I say with a bow and a scrape.

"Very funny," he says, but he goes up the steps and I follow.


	12. Chapter 12

Hero Worship, Chapter Twelve  
Ravenna C. Tan

 

The meeting is held in what was once the Transfiguration classroom, but the individual student desks are gone and a large conference table dominates the center of the room. This was Minerva's domain for so many years, I am sure this is why she chose it. Probably any security or anti-spying charms in the room she applied herself. Every eye turns toward Potter and myself as we walk into the room.

He goes to take a seat on the far side of the table and indicates I should sit next to him. The urge to spit out "yes, master" and kneel mockingly at his feet is strong. But I do not indulge it.

I take the proffered chair.

"Yes, Severus, how are you?" So says Lupin, from a few chairs down where he has been pretending to read the Prophet.

"Quite well, thank you. And you?" I am not really listening to the platitude he responds with. I am cataloging everyone in the room and deciding which are the most dangerous to me.

At the head of the table, conferring quietly with Minerva, is Elphias Doge. the eldest of our number now that Dumbledore is gone. He is also the one who has been decrypting the journals. Not a likely threat to me or my position. Gideon Vance, husband of the late Emmeline, seems to have taken her place in the Order. He barely gives me a glance. Shacklebolt glides in and greets me with a nod. Molly and Arthur come in soon after. They settle next to Dedalus Diggle who moves his top hat from a chair before Arthur can sit on it, only to have Nymphadora Tonks crush it when she comes over to give Molly a kiss on the cheek. There are a few others I do not know well, new folk, stealing curious but not threatening glances at me.

Mad-Eye Moody is the last to arrive, and his eyes, both of them, fixate on me the moment he comes into the room. The only seat left at that point is on the other side of Harry from me, and he stumps noisily to it and sits down, his face turned now toward Minerva, though I'm sure his magical eye is still looking at me through his skull.

Moody's paranoia irks me. What use is the man's constant vigilance when an imbecile like Barty Crouch Junior could imprison him and pose as his impostor for nearly a year? Though I was never so impolitic as to say that to Dumbledore where Moody could hear, he knows I do not think highly of him.

And I doubt he thinks highly of me. I receive proof of this fact when we begin to debate some of the points of the decryption. This meeting, apparently, is less about revealing the contents of the journals than for arguing about the next tack to take in decoding them. Only the most recent entries have been read at this point.

Arthur brings up the suggestion, one that has apparently been shot down before, of enlisting the aid of a Ministry code-breaker. It is shot down summarily. And so it goes.

Until Moody begins to bait me. "I think the journals'll be a dead end, anyhow. Minerva, we should be returning to the cave to look for clues that Harry and Albus might have missed."

"It's too dangerous," she says, in what sounds like a familiar argument.

"So send Snape! Let the bloody coward do something useful if he's _one of us_."

I am opening my mouth to retort, but Harry beats me to it, and I am surprised at the authority in his voice. "I agree we should return to the cave. But Severus is not a ... a stick you can poke into Ashwinder nests."

"I was against the binding in the first place, Harry," Moody says, eye spinning now. "Ye may have neutralized one of the Dark Lord's pawns, but you've taken yourself out of the game, too, with that. And that's exactly what he wants."

I speak up at that. "May I remind you that being bound was in no way my suggestion or idea?" I say. "You people came to me and offered it to me as my only choice! And not only that, I consented without knowing whom my principal was to be. For all I knew, it would be you, Moody."

"It should have been me!" Spit sprays from his mouth, hitting Harry who merely stiffens. "Or someone who can keep you in line!"

"I've done nothing to deserve to be spoken to this way--"

"No? What about killing Dumbledore, you backstabbing--"

"I sacrificed my life--and now my freedom--to advance his cause and yet you cannot--"

"What's to say you don't have Harry under your influence already, you murderous--"

I do not know who draws his wand first, but I am fairly sure it is he. It is hard to tell once the anger flares so hot that it nearly blinds me and I cannot even feel my wand in my fingers, nor can I hear my own voice shouting since by this time everyone around the table is shouting at the same time...

And then silence. And impact, as I land on my back hard enough to knock the wind out of me, Potter atop me with his hands clutching the silver chain around my neck.

He pulls me up, not choking me with it, but his eyes are wild. "I cannot believe you just did that."

"Did what?" I ask, but I know what it is I am already feeling. It is one thing to lose my temper and my control with Potter, quite another to do it in front of the Order. I let my head fall back. What is wrong with me? A thousand thoughts are fighting for my attention.

He lets me fall. We are on the hearth rug in my rooms. I wonder if the charm chose this as our destination or if Potter chose it. He is straddling me, looming, and I wonder if, despite the consequences, he is about to strike me again.

But his anger is cold, not hot. "You will not do that again."

My instinct is to fight. Even though I agree with him, I should not have lost control. There are too many emotions running amok in my mind. I give voice to my instinct. "And just how will you insure that?" I sneer.

"Like this," he says, pulling me by the chain, which I cannot seem to resist. So, it is a leash after all. He shifts until he is sitting on the ottoman, and pulls me across his lap.

"No..." I start to say.

"Yes." The charm must give him strength, because I cannot pull away, even as he flips my robe aside and pulls my trousers to my knees. He speaks with his mouth against my ear, his lips moving my hair as he says, "You know how angry I am, don't you, Snape? You can make it all better if you take your licks like a good boy."

The whirlwind in my mind focuses to a pinpoint. "What?" I say, as if I haven't heard him.

"Do you want it? To make it up to me the way you made it up to Evan Rosier? Hmmm? Your choice, Snape. Say no and I'll lock you in here and go back to the meeting without you. Say yes and I'll erase your disgrace."

Those words seem to be the only ones that make it through the noise in my head. _Erase your disgrace._ "Yes," I hiss and let my arms go limp. It's a simple choice. He has made it simple for me. The turmoil ends the moment I say it.

He strikes me hard, and I wonder how much of it is the spell and how much of it is simply the strength in his arm. The pain makes it easy to focus even more. He spanks hard, rhythmically, not caring about the corresponding pain he must feel in his hand. His anger buffers him from that, and it is not long before I am experiencing anew the astonishment and shame that it is I who lost my temper. I, the master spy, the most powerful Occlumens of my age, Slytherin head of house, and not the bloody impulsive underage Gryffindor who is even now taking me apart blow by blow.

The blows get deeper as his confidence grows, as he senses through Argus where my limits are. Until with each smack he is grabbing a handful of my buttock before drawing back, eliciting a deep grunt from me on each one.

When the blows stop, I am utterly limp across his lap, and all thoughts have been driven quiet by the force of his will. Then I hear the 'pop' of his lips, and he swirls a wet finger at the pucker of my anus.

He must have seen rather more of my memories of Evan than I suspected. That is the one thought deep down that flickers in my consciousness. But I moan with pleasure and anticipation. His voice hums in my ear again, and it's almost as if he's speaking directly into my mind, though I know he isn't. "Slippery elm?" he whispers, and I nod. He Summons it from the ingredients cabinet and I am thinking _clever boy._ He slicks his fingers with the solution and slides one inside me.

That whimpering is me, a sound that has not come out of my throat since I was nigh on his age. It doubles in volume as he slides a second finger in with the first and sends a jolt to the tips of my nerve endings.

"Very good," he whispers and the warmth of his approval, after the chill of his anger, feels like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

He shifts us onto the rug now, me pillowing my head on my bent arms and settling my knees far enough apart to suit him. He positions himself behind me, reaches with his other hand for my cock while his fingers continue to fuck me.

I press my face against my arms and there are several long moments when the feel of his hand on my cock is the only thing that matters in the world. His age, our history, Hogwarts, it all disappears.

But then it comes back. I tense--second thoughts, third thoughts crowding back into my head.

"Don't think it," he says.

"Think what?"

He clears his throat and then does his version of my voice. "'There is no situation, including the defeat of the Dark Lord, that justifies a sixteen-year-old touching a man old enough to be his father.'" I look over my own shoulder to see a smirk begin to twist his lips. "I'd say you're wrong. His defeat will be the justification."

"But..."

"No, Snape. No more thinking about it." He twists the fingers inside me. "You don't have any more choices to make. Not about this."

I nod. "Very well."

"And not about the Order, either. The spell makes me your guardian and I will take that role seriously." His eyes are glittering green.

"It was your wish to bring me to that meeting today," I remind him, difficult though speech is as his fingers do their work.

"And I will bring you to every meeting. But you must do as I say. No fighting. No options."

I bow my head. Until I regain my equilibrium, until I can stop the outbursts, this is the most sensible course. Did I actually hex Moody before he pulled me away? I cannot trust myself until I regain my self-control. This course is temptingly practical. "Yes. I'll do as you say."

"Then here are the new rules." He pauses with his fingers deep inside me, his other hand still slipping up and down the curve of my erection almost as an afterthought. "I'll get you off once a day--but you choose morning or evening. When we're with other members of the Order, you will defer to me and my decisions about our conduct and our plans. When we're in the Room of Requirement, though, you are in charge."

I crane my neck again, questioning with my eyes.

"I know I've a lot to learn. I don't even know what to ask about. The classroom's your domain. Will you accept these rules?"

"I will." It is surprisingly easy to say, now that I have stopped resisting him. Reality, my old sets of morals, these things keep trying to re-assert themselves. But I do not let them. Potter is my moral compass for now, my lodestone. I feel a modicum of peace I have not felt for seven years.

Being an exceptional Occlumens means being exceptional at compartmentalization. I can do this. I will subsume my will to Potter's if that is what it takes to attain my goal. If there are rewards along the way I will not experience guilt nor remorse, any more than I did as a Death Eater.

He pulls on my penis with swift, slippery strokes, "Come on, Snape," he says. "I've waited long enough for this."

I nod. I'm trying. He whispers encouragement. He can feel I'm trying. I'm nearly screaming in frustration, and the image of him masturbating comes into my mind again.

It is enough. My cock begins to spasm, as does the rest of me to some extent, while I struggle to keep my awareness. Four, five, six heavy spurts, and then I am spent, and gasping for air, and uncurling my toes inside my boots, and wondering if I will even be able to speak for the next several minutes.

I feel as complete as I have since... well, perhaps as complete as I ever have. I've been bouncing back and forth between two masters for far too long. The third, my own self-interest, was eliminated from the equation long ago. Of the other two, I killed one, and the other I hope to see die soon.

That leaves only Potter and his cause now. My one purpose left on this Earth.

He takes his hands away, begins to move away from me. "Potter," I croak.

"I'll be right back," he says.

"No!" I struggle with my twisted robes and leg-trapping trousers to turn around, to grip him by the hips. "No, you must let me." I cannot explain to him or myself why. This is just the way of things and they must be completed.

But he gets to his feet. "I'm going back to the meeting. I'll... I'll tell them that we were dueling and that you took a... an aggressiveness potion or something for the sake of practice. I... I'll see you later."

And then he is gone, the door latching behind him, and I am staring at a pool of my own spunk on my hearth rug, feeling spent and empty.


	13. Chapter 13

Hero Worship, Chapter Thirteen  
Ravenna C. Tan

It is not until the middle of the night that I wake up wondering what in hell's name I've done. I've agreed to subsume my own will to a bratty teenager's because he had the good grace to get me off?

No, be precise. He is not bratty. Draco Malfoy is bratty, or was. I wonder for a moment how the Malfoy heir is faring, if he's in the clutches of the Death Eaters, or if he's even still alive. And Potter, well, it's clear that recent experiences have aged Potter. He is still raw, but he is not the sullen layabout I used to loathe. And he is mere weeks from being of age.

And much as I would like to deny it, Argus is too powerful a spell to ignore. Years of celibacy, of it being too dangerous to let another person that close to my body or my mind, had convinced me I did not need sexual release nor intimacy. I am intensely uncomfortable to find that supposition shattered. Yet I could do worse for a caretaker than Potter. He will be discreet, of that I am sure, as he has as much to hide as I do. And he is aesthetically suitable. He doesn't like me much, but Argus gives him no choice about that.

My bedroom is quiet in the way only a dungeon room can be, the air perfectly still. I lie on my back, awake and thinking. The image is bright in my mind, Moody and I both with wands drawn. Moody has always been a crazy, loose cannon and as much a danger to us as to the enemy.

But me? It pains me to think that the others see me in the same light. That is not who I am.

I remember something Evan taught me, so long ago. Discipline, he told me, is only necessary for those without self-discipline. My self-discipline flew off the top of the Astronomy Tower, though. Potter will be my discipline now.

Part of me expects him to fail at it. But that is not my concern. Not yet. That is a different bridge to cross. For now I have put my feet on a path and I shall not be the one who falters. If he finds me so distasteful that he must flee after performing his duty, that is his affair.

Again the thought nags me that there must be someone he goes to, someone he desires, but I remind myself that is not my concern. I sleep well after that.

We meet at the Room of Requirement at the appointed time. He looks remarkably better and I am not so smitten as to think that it is my perception that has changed. The circles under his eyes are gone and his skin seems less waxy. The irony of the situation makes me chuckle. He is the guardian, but I am the one who must eat, and sleep, and wank, or he will waste away. But of course, mutual dependence was the goal of the spell, and that it has achieved.

"Pick up your wand. I would like you to begin with a recitation of the spells and what they do," I say, my hands folded behind my back.

He is seated at a writing desk in front of me. He picks up the wand and then hesitates. "Um, but you haven't told me what they all do."

"Correct. In fact, I have explained none of them. But I would like to hear your... best guess." I am staring into his eyes as I say this. _Think, Potter. Why would I tell you to pick up your wand if all you are going to do is talk?_ For a moment, I think he is going to disappoint me, crumble like he used to in class, when he could look to his friends for sympathy. Then I feel the push of him at my mind. I let his hand reach into the cookie jar before I slide the lid shut.

" _Eruptonis Sanguis_ ," he begins. "Makes their blood fountain out through their mouth."

"And other places, if cast with enough force. Very good. Proceed."

He does, getting through half a dozen before he falters and falls silent.

"Very good," I say, and then realize he is waiting for a rebuke. "Mr. Potter. When I set you up to fail, you will know it."

He blinks. "Is that what you've...?"

"Yes. I have quite enjoyed watching you struggle through my classes all these years, as I have set one obstacle after another in your path." I examine my fingernails. "That tactic seems counterproductive to our current situation, however, and I do have other methods."

He stifles the flicker of outrage on his face, and opens his mouth to say something, but I speak first. "Now tell me, what did you just do to suppress your anger?"

His eyes search the top of his desk. "I sort of, um, I don't know."

"But you did it. You pushed it aside. You buried it. You hid it."

"Well, yes." He is frowning not in annoyance but with the effort of trying to understand.

"When you Occlude, you will bury your thoughts the same way. Only you will use your magic to do it, your entire will."

I see his eyes widen as this idea sinks in.

Then there is a knock on the door. I go to open it, and there is a house elf with a scroll. I take the scroll and the elf scurries away.

"It's from Minerva," I say, my heart sinking. "She requests to see both of us after lunch in her office."

Potter chuckles.

"What's so funny?"

"You," he answers, crossing his ankles under the desk and smiling. "You sound like she's going to give you detention or something."

I tug on the chain. "She already did, remember?"

"Was she teaching here when you were a student?"

I nod. "Though I never had detention with her. Stop laughing at me!"

But he can't. He wipes his face as if he can physically take the smile away, but he can't. "You think you're in trouble, though."

"My behavior at yesterday's meeting was appalling." But that doesn't mean I wish to face censure over it.

"I'll speak to her first," he says then, and I am reminded of the authority I heard in his voice when he addressed the group yesterday. The Order of the Phoenix has no ranks, but this young soldier is already a trusted lieutenant. And he's The Boy Who Lived. Of course they listen to him, something he is only now learning to exploit.

This reminds me of something I've been meaning to ask him. "You called me by my given name, yesterday."

He tenses. "In the meeting. Yeah."

"Why?"

"Haven't you noticed? If someone likes someone in the Order they'll call them by first name. 'That's a grand idea, Harry.' 'What do you think, Arthur?' And if I called you 'Snape,' well, it was going to come across like I didn't like you, and then the others would feel it was okay not to like you as well."

I sit in a chair a few feet from him. "I thought none of you liked me."

"Well, that's true. But we're not going to get anywhere that way." He blushes. "I dunno, Snape. Did you ever consider that maybe I felt bad about wanting to kill you?"

"Why would you regret that? I killed your mentor, tormented you, and seemingly betrayed you. I expected you to feel that way."

"Yeah, but..."

"But you feel guilty. Did you consider that may be an affect of Argus?" I am not looking at him when I say this. "Or maybe it's just your oversized Gryffindor sense of honor?"

"Yeah, well. I feel sorry about it, and I want them to feel sorry, too."

Now that is interesting. "Why do you care how they feel?" We've now strayed quite far from the lesson plan, but this is valuable information for me.

"I don't know." He is looking at the bookshelf now, but not really seeing it. "I guess I feel better when everyone agrees with me. Like I've made the right choice."

"And when they don't agree with you? Do you change what you think?"

"No." He laughs at himself. "That's the story of my life."

I sit silent, waiting for him to go on.

"I mean, no one believed me when I said I could hear a voice in the walls, and it turned out there was a basilisk on the loose. No one would listen to me when I said Malfoy was up to something, either, told me I was obsessed, like I was the one who was nuts. And of course he was trying to let the Death Eaters in the whole time."

"No one, not even your friends, Weasley and Granger?"

"They were the ones who told me I was obsessed."

I watch him look at his own hands. So it seems I am not the only one who has consistently underestimated, belittled, and disbelieved the boy. (Not a boy, anymore, though, I remind myself.) Was Albus the only one who saw and believed?

His voice breaks my reverie. "You're thinking about him. Dumbledore."

"The spell tells you this?"

"Sort of. You get a certain look on your face. And I can feel your... your regret. I put two and two together."

"Indeed." We each sit a while with our thoughts before we go back to the day's lesson. I put Minerva McGonagall out of my mind and concentrate on the task at hand.


	14. Chapter 14

Hero Worship, Chapter Fourteen  
by Ravenna C. Tan

 

True to his word, he goes in first. I realize that now that Minerva--the former Head of Gryffindor House--has taken up residence in the Headmaster's Office, in my mind it has become "the lion's den." We are sometimes quite alike, Minerva and I, in our notions of propriety and discipline, which is my current source of concern. She has always treated me as a peer and colleague since I joined the staff at Hogwarts, but the ability to reduce me to the role of recalcitrant schoolboy lurks in her glare.

Humiliation has never been one of my favorite things, which may be why I choose to take matters into my own hands. The door swings open to admit me and I enter to find them seated and waiting for me. A cup of tea has already been poured and sits on the side table by the empty chair I am to take.

I ignore the chair, and fold my legs under me so that I am sitting at Potter's feet.

Her eyes narrow just a fraction behind her glasses, as if she doubts my sincerity--indeed, had I not just contemplated this same action but in sarcasm a short time ago?--but she clears her throat and speaks. "So it's true, then, Severus." There is no hint of censure or rebuke in her voice, only mild surprise, and I know I have done the correct thing. "You've agreed to do as Mister Potter says."

"Yes." It's so easy. I cannot believe how easy. Resistance, that was hard.

She looks concerned. "This goes beyond what you agreed to with the spell, Severus. There are no compulsions to obedience or... or servitude in the Argus incantation."

"I know. Minerva, I made this choice of my own free will and the only thing binding me is my decision to carry it through."

"I see." She glances back at Albus' portrait, but the snoring figure has yet to wake up. "Well, that does make me feel better."

That and she has no idea that there is a difference between servitude and submission. I am not a servant. A pawn yes, in the largest game of Wizard Chess ever played. I have been that since before Potter was born. But these distinctions are not necessary to Minerva's understanding. Only mine. And Potter's.

"There is something I'd like to ask your advice about, though, Severus," she says, pouring herself another cup of tea. "Did you know that Gideon Vance has been brewing Wolfsbane for us?"

"I was not aware that Mr. Vance had the necessary background in potions."

"Durmstrang, class of 1975, with two years follow-up study at the Swedish Institute of Pharmacopoeia." She purses her lips. "Yet Remus has had a few... comments about the effectiveness of the potion."

I see where this is going. "Minerva, there is no need to approach this problem sidelong. If you would rather I do it, please just ask me."

"Hmm, well. Vance is a fussy sort, and he has already started a batch for this month. I wouldn't want it to seem as if..."

"Brewing Wolfsbane is tedious and goes much faster with two sets of hands. Shall I offer to assist him with this batch, and then surely next month you can find some other more useful task for him to perform for the Order?"

She nods. "He has complained a bit about needing to Floo in and out of Hogwarts constantly to work on it, and it is as you've said, we're spread thin."

Potter has not said a word through this exchange but I feel the warmth of his hand where it rests on my shoulder. He squeezes it when we are dismissed and I know he is pleased.

As we make our way back to the seventh floor, I tell him about Wolfsbane. "I put Osmanthus into it, to sweeten it."

"You put what?"

We pass a painting of two ladies playing croquet--they stare at us as we walk by. "Osmanthus. A small, yellow flower. The Chinese put it in tea to make it sweeter without adding sugar."

"Does making it sweeter make it work better?"

"The potion's base effectiveness should not be affected. But if a more pleasant taste encourages the drinker to take the entire dose? That may." We are nearing the stretch of hall that is our destination. "To add actual sugar would upset the balance of the ingredients, and it would burn in the cauldron when reducing. I know Lupin has a sweet tooth, though."

"Yeah, yeah he does." He looks puzzled. "How did you know that?"

"One needn't have been bosom buddies with him to have known that," I say. "Besides, I saw how many sugars he put in his tea at faculty staff meetings, the year he taught here."

"Oh." He sighs. "It's a good thing I don't need to know much about Potions to defeat Voldemort."

He sees me wince at his use of the name and he frowns. "Will you be all right with Gideon Vance? Or should I...?"

"You need not set foot in the laboratory to babysit me if you are uncomfortable there. I promise I shall be a model of tact and restraint."

He looks relieved. "Let's work on blocking hexes for an hour, and then you should go look in on him."

I raise an eyebrow. "I thought you said I was in charge in the Room of Requirement?"

"We're not inside, yet," he says with a cheeky grin, and begins pacing up and down the hall to open the doorway.

I accede to his wishes, though it is closer to two hours later that I make my way to the dungeons.

Vance is seated on a stool, reading a book with a single, conjured canary circling his head, as the cauldron in front of him bubbles and simmers. He shuts the book as he hears me in the doorway. "Ah, Snape. McGonagall said you'd be along." He stands and peers into the cauldron. "I've only just finished the first stage."

The canary twitters as he wafts some of the steam rising toward his nose with a cupped hand. "Seems about right, wouldn't you say?"

I do the same. "Perhaps ten minutes more. Have you already peeled the aconite rhizomes?"

"Ah, over here."

I can see he started the task, but hasn't finished it. We set to with silver knives, neither of us speaking, which suits me well. When the batch of roots are cleaned of their pulpy outer layers, I set to mincing them fine as he stirs the contents of the cauldron.

The only hint of friction between us comes perhaps an hour later, as he prepares to take his leave and I prepare to monitor the simmer for another half-hour or so before letting a charm do the job overnight. He is packing a few books and tools into a satchel when he says, "Emmeline and I used to work on potions together."

"You must miss her," I say, with no emotion in my voice.

"I had always worked alone before we met. But she could somehow always anticipate what I needed, always ready with a phial or an ingredient. We fit together like two dancers, finishing each other's sentences..." He snapped his satchel shut. "You're a poor substitute, Snape."

"I am sure I am," I say, remembering my promise to Potter. Model of tact and restraint. "Good night, Vance."

He stalks out, his anger coming off him like fumes from an overboiling solution. Emmeline Vance died because of information I passed from Dumbledore to the Dark Lord. There is no way that Gideon Vance should know that. And yet, information has a way of worming its way to places we don't expect. I wonder if he hates me for causing his wife's death, or if this is just general enmity toward me for being in her place. I almost want to tell him to blame Dumbledore. But we pawns do not blame, do we? And I am a model of tact and restraint.


	15. Chapter 15

Hero Worship, Chapter Fifteen  
by Ravenna C. Tan

 

Potter and I eat side by side in the Great Hall that night. I follow him in, sit on his right, and follow him out without saying a word. There are few enough people present; no one seems to notice my behavior.

I follow him across the entrance hall, and he takes the stairs toward the dungeons. My stomach twists with dread even as other parts of me awaken in anticipation. The time has come for him to take care of my so-called needs.

I pause on the threshold of my own door. He turns and sees my hesitation.

"What's wrong?"

I force myself to follow him into the room. I've agreed to this. I need not think about whether I am going through with it or not. The course is set.

These are of course the exact words I've told myself for years, whenever I've had to do something to maintain my cover. The very words that went through my mind each time I cast _Cruciatus_ in the Dark Lord's name, and each time I questioned Albus' orders to kill him. I chide myself for needing to steel myself for pleasure as if it were Unforgivable.

I wonder how we should do this, what I should say, or do... then I remember it is not my responsibility to worry about this things. It is his. I stand quiet in the center of the rug, my hands folded.

He sits in the overstuffed chair and looks at me. He props his chin with one elbow on the armrest, which gives him a glum aspect. "I said you could choose morning or night, so if you want me to come back in the morning, I will."

I shake my head. It will be no less mortifying to have the hand of one of my former students on my cock in the morning than it is now. My penis throbs softly under my robes in anticipation. Yes, how quickly we become conditioned to new routines.

"My neck is getting stiff looking up at you."

I settle at his feet with my hand on the armrest. His gaze is thoughtful. "You don't have to sit down there, you know," he says.

"It's easier for me," I say. "To remember." To remember that I submitted to these terms willingly and that if I fight them, I lose face. This is about regaining my self-control, after all.

"Ah." He reaches his hand out then and strokes my hair. I am sure Argus tells him the feelings that brings up in me, both good and bad. "Don't fight it," he whispers.

"I'm not," I say, pressing my forehead to his knee.

"You did well with Vance," he says. "At least, I assume so, since there have been no explosions and he was seen leaving Hogwarts in one piece."

"Yes."

"And that was extremely clever of you, to combine an Occlumency lesson with a dueling lesson, earlier. I'll always remember those spells now."

I let myself relax into his caress when he says that. Perhaps Argus tells him enough that he understands. "You deserve a reward, Severus."

The way he says my name causes gooseflesh to rise across my back again. Part of me says I didn’t consent to this much intimacy. That was not part of the terms. But I am craving his approval and his comfort more than my safety at this moment.

I never expected to feel comfort like this again.

"Will you take off your clothes?" he asks, and I nearly laugh. Does he not realize he's already forced me beyond my usual boundaries of propriety, just by saying my name? I remember his comment on the Order's group dynamics. Using someone's first name is supposed to mean you like them.

To me it feels invasive. But it should. I should ignore it, and I do. "Of course," I reply, standing up to undo the buttons on my long frock.

"And would it be all right if we went into the bedroom?"

"I have no objections," I tell him, as I fold my robes over the back of another chair, then sit in it to loosen my boots. I do not point out that he has been in there already, uninvited.

When I look at him next, I am denuded and he is blushing, there in his little throne by the fireplace. We are both erect, though I am more visible, obviously.

"Turn around," he says. "Please." I wonder just how much of my time with Evan he's seen and how much of this is purely his own invention. With Evan the "please" was a formality, a subtle reminder that I had a choice, but very much a command.

The fact that he is exactly the age that Evan was when I last did this sort of thing is not lost on me, either.

Then he is standing, his shoulder against my collarbone as his hand slides over my balls. Even when he is fully grown, he will not reach my height. I bury my nose in his hair as he fondles me and turns my breath ragged. He pulls me onto the settle, the idea of the bedroom discarded for now. Then he holds me still with one hand on my chest, while with the other he gently touches my foreskin.

I shudder. He is looking at my penis like it is some exotic creature. With two fingers he rolls the foreskin down, bit by bit, exposing the dewy head.

"Yours curves straight," he says.

"How can something that curves be straight?" I say, wondering why he has made me and not one of his dorm mates the subject of his zoological exploration.

"I mean, mine goes off to the left, but yours is centered. It curves toward your belly and not to the side."

Ah. "That is because of what you wear. Your clothes push you to one side. It's perfectly norm..." He clasps his hand around me, and rubs the knuckle of his index finger under the tender cleft.

He soon switches to pulling on my foreskin, stroking my full length with the soft flesh. There is no need for the slippery elm like this, and if I had not seen that image of him masturbating face down and thrusting his hips I'd think this was his preferred way of doing himself.

But it is still hard for me to come like this, in his hand. Arousing and pleasurable as it might be, it is still hard to let go.

"Just relax," he tells me. "My arm isn't tired." He adds a twist to his motion and murmurs more encouragement into my ear, and I finally go over the edge.

Again he stands up in that moment when I go blank, and steps out of my reach. "Very good," he says, but the words feel empty, as he hastens to leave. "I'll see you in the morning."

And then he is gone and I curse myself for feeling bereft. This is why I do not normally grow close to people. The thought burns me again, of whom he is rushing off to, now that he is assured of being able to come himself. His friends and the Weasley girl he was friendly with are with their parents for the time-being. There are very few Order members that I can picture as being Potter's type. Perhaps he is merely off to wank alone, instead of doing it in front of a man old enough to be his father.

I remind myself that it was not long ago that his main feeling toward me was loathing. That he appears to have some respect for me now does not change that. Nonetheless, I find it painful that he has rebuffed my efforts to reciprocate twice. He has done his job as guardian and perhaps that is all I can expect.

I reinforce my plan to try to dig deeper into his memory, to find out whom he fantasizes about while wanking. I am jealous, and I know so. Tomorrow's lesson is planned.


	16. Chapter 16

Hero Worship, Chapter Sixteen  
by Ravenna C. Tan

 

I am already there in the Room when he enters in the morning. He sees the space is clear of all furniture and that the rug is in place. I have been staring at the rug for several minutes while waiting for him. It has a deep blue border around an ornate pattern of unicorns and phoenixes and fountains.

"Today we duel," I say simply.

He draws his wand and stands facing me, trying to look unsurprised, but I know it must seem sudden.

"To even the gap in our experience and skills," I say, "I will use my left hand and I will speak my spells aloud. I'll also limit myself to hexes which will not cause you any serious bodily harm. You, on the other hand, need have no such limits in what you cast at me."

"But what about Argus?" he asks. "I can't hurt you."

I shake my head. "The spell reads intent. You had no trouble punishing me the other day, you may recall."

I am gratified that his face is redder than mine when I say that.

"Recall, also, that you must Occlude if you have any hope of surprising me or slipping through my guard."

"Yeah, I know." He holds up his wand to salute me, and we bow to each other.

And then I am blocking his first hex as I step to my left, my wand side now, and counterattacking as I complete the turn, a Jelly-Legs Jinx that he deflects forcefully but not with undue energy or attention. Good. We continue to circle one another, the hexes soon flying faster and I am pleased with the way he keeps up with the pace.

I then get two spells off, nearly at the same time, a Leg-locker, which he blocks, and Expelliarmus, which he doesn't, though because I say it aloud, even as his wand flies from his hand, he is already Summoning it back. In the moment he turns his head away from me, though, to see the wand's return, I cast the Tripping Charm and one of his feet tangles with the other and he falls, hard.

He pants, the wind knocked out of him, and stays down.

"Excellent," I say, waiting for him to get back up. "Your Shield Charms are greatly improved, and your reflexes are excellent."

And so it goes, through several more rounds, but as he fatigues, it becomes easier to read his intent. Each round ends with him on the ground at my feet. If he is the slightest bit chagrined at this, it does not show. If I am the slightest bit smug about it, I hope it is just as hidden.

His ability to Occlude erodes as his frustration rises. But he defends himself ably, and moves well. It is his sheer physicality that gives him his first real opening of the lesson. He attacks with two closely placed hexes--a quick learner, as I've said--and I am so intent on brushing them both aside that I do not realize he is still coming toward me until his shoulder slams me in the chest. We both fall, he lands hard atop me, and this time it is my breath that is knocked from me.

With the rules I have set, even though I have my wand in hand, I cannot counterattack because for the moment I cannot speak. He presses the tip of his wand into the soft flesh under my throat and I merely nod to concede.

He stares down into my eyes for a few moments before he climbs to his feet. He holds out a hand to help me up. I take it and he hauls me upright, the grin now breaking out on his face.

"For a moment," he says, "I thought you were going to be angry that I cheated."

"Mr. Potter," I say, brushing my hair from my eyes. "Haven't I told you to set aside your outsized Gryffindor sense of honor? You are dueling a Slytherin and it is a Slytherin whom you must ultimately defeat. There is no such thing as _cheating._ "

To prove my point, I round on him with my wand--he blocks the silent hex (a bit forcibly, but effectively) and then we are both grinning.

I am still telegraphing my movements now, but I am no longer using verbal spells. The battle goes on more fiercely now, a flurry of exchanges and then we are circling again, each wary of the other, such that I am almost sorry when I finally get him again, with two closely-placed hexes. This time he blocks the Tripper with a surge of pride.

What gets through is my _Legilimens._

He falls to his knees with his hands over his eyes, hiding everything he can from me.

But I have already snatched the answer to my question from his mind. I am the victor. So why am I the one backing away?

I see it quite clearly. He shudders against his own hand, starved for the orgasm that will not come, but I have penetrated to the next layer of that memory, and the image in his mind that drives him is not the one I expect. Surely the body he fantasizes under his should be red-haired and freckle-faced, or tawny-skinned like that Ravenclaw Seeker he fancied. Not pale and black-haired and twice his age.

His imagination is quite vivid. He conjures a credible version of my voice, crying his name.

"Mr. Potter," I say, because I must say something. "You let your guard down."

"You didn't say you were going to use Legilimency!"

"Were you not supposed to be Occluding, in any case? And when did I say I would use only physical hexes?"

He crosses his legs under him and stares at he unicorns on the rug. He is sulking.

I should be trying to mollify him, to reinforce the positive progress of today's lesson. But I am too stricken by the idea that he has fantasized about fucking me to do anything of the sort.

"I must go look in on Vance," I say, which is the truth.

He nods. And I go.


	17. Chapter 17

Hero Worship, Chapter Seventeen  
Ravenna C. Tan

He does not appear at dinner time. I eat, but sparingly, as the uncomfortable glances from the others do not improve my appetite.

He appears in the late evening, just about the time I am beginning to think he won't. A soft knock comes at my door and I open it with a flick of my wand. I am on the settle with a book in my hand but I confess I have not been reading. I have mostly been thinking over what to say to him.

But he speaks first, angrily. "You did that on purpose."

I know I am trying to teach him to duel coldly, but his magic vibrates powerfully when he is angry. I try to ignore it. "Used Legilimency? Do you think the Dark Lord will not?"

"No. I mean you went after that specific thing, didn't you?" He does not phrase it as a question.

I set the book aside. "How do you know?"

"I felt it. It wasn't like the other times, even back in fifth year. It felt different." He touches his temple, and for a moment his resolve wavers. He is worried he won't be able to Occlude well enough to defeat his enemy. But he pushes that aside in favor of being angry with me. "Why did you do that?"

"You need to be able to defend against a specific attack as well as a general invasion of your thoughts."

"That's bullshit, Snape."

"But nonetheless true."

He takes a step forward and his power fairly crackles in the room. "We're not in the Room of Requirement now, the lecture is over, and you promised to do as I say."

"Very well." I fold my arms over my chest. "What are your orders, _master_?"

"Answer my question. Why did you pry?" He falters. "I thought it would be better if I kept that hidden."

I cannot meet his eyes. "You were right to hide it." The half-truth I utter next is too good to resist. "You do realize, of course, the position you are in gives you the power to exploit me terribly. To use me for your own desires."

He goes pale. I've snuffed his anger with the mere hint of an accusation. "I-I would n-never..." He is so horrified at the thought that he might commit an act of rape that he cannot even speak. Never mind the fact that he tried to commit two Unforgivable acts on me the night of Dumbledore's death. Never mind the fact that the spell drove him to entangle himself in my erotic needs and that surely it would protect the charge against rape by a guardian. And never mind the fact each time he has made me come, he would not allow me to reciprocate. My ability to distract him from the facts at hand with emotional booby traps remains as strong as ever. He does not even realize that I have side-stepped answering his question.

"Look," he says, guilt creasing his face. "I didn't mean it that way. Yes, I thought about you, but... I mean, I didn't know what else to do..." He claps his mouth shut as he realizes he can only dig the hole deeper.

"Potter," I say, and he looks up at me. "If it would be easier for you, we can postpone this until the morning."

He pauses a moment, and I know the thought process he goes through. He gave me the choice of morning or evening. If he pushes the issue now, he will only make it seem even more as if he is taking advantage of me.

"Or I could take care of it on my own," I say.

He narrows his eyes. That option was not in the terms he set and which I agreed to. He is too smart or too stubborn to let me get away with that, no matter how off balance I have him. "The morning, then," he says, standing taller.

When he leaves I slump back against the settle. He will eventually realize that I didn't answer his question, or the spell will nudge him that I am hiding something from him. My jealousy over whomever he was fantasizing about. But now I am hiding something bigger: the fact that the moment I found out he desired me, my desire to fight him returned.

I had thought I could follow him, his instructions, without thought or question, because I thought I knew the measure of the power he had over me. But this? This complicates things beyond measure, beyond my ability to see the boundaries. The thought that Potter might feel something more for me than loathing, or perhaps a grudging respect, frightens me beyond all reason.

For tonight I have pushed him back. I have the upper hand.

I know it will not last. As it never did with lords dark or benevolent, it will not last.


	18. Chapter 18

Hero Worship, Chapter Eighteen  
by Ravenna C. Tan

 

That night I dream of Evan. In my dream he has Silenced me, a sure sign that he is going to do something terrible and wonderful to me that he does not want my dorm mates to hear. The curtains are drawn on my bed, and it is completely dark, yet I know it is him. I know the taste of his magic in my mouth, keeping me quiet. I know the feel of his hands, stripping me bare and touching me places that no one has touched me, not in that way, ever. Though a part of my brain is reminding me this is no longer the case, in my dream I am fifteen again and still innocent of any touch but his.

 _Please, Evan_ , I'm trying to say. I'm trying to explain to him what has happened with Potter, how confusing it is, how I've pledged myself to him and yet I am resisting him more than ever. How dismayed I am that he wants me. But the Silencing Charm muffles not only my cries of pain and ecstasy, but my words as well.

I wake with a sudden gasp, my own breath loud in my ears, after the silence of the dream, to find I am on my stomach, my arms crushing a pillow beneath me, and my erection trapped between my stomach and the mattress.

Potter is sitting there, in a chair by the bedside, looking calm. "I didn't want to wake you," he says. "But it seems you woke yourself."

I sag against the pillow. "Please, Potter, I..." My words disappear into the Silencing Charm he casts and I clench the pillow to me. Does he know? Or is it just a coincidence?

"Roll over," he says, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. He pushes at my hip and I oblige, my nightshirt sticking to me, damp with sweat. "We'll discuss things later. For now, my terms, my way, okay?"

I nod and he begins to stroke me. The feel of his hand is starting to be familiar, a thought that both thrills and terrifies me.

Especially when this time it seems he teases me. Rather than speeding me toward orgasm as quickly as possible, he backs off and lets me plateau several times before driving my arousal higher and higher. The Silencing Charm makes my moans and whimpers unheard. I am covered in sweat as my body strains, wanting the release, but at his mercy. He Summons his wand from the robes laid over the chair and whispers a word--his hand is now as slick as when it was coated with Slippery Elm, only warm and tingling.

He is teasing me, and he has taken away my voice so I cannot beg for release. I suffer. Sublimely, yes, but it is suffering nonetheless. I do not know another word for it. I suffer his touch. Time has ceased to have meaning, but it goes on a long time, my cock in one of his hands, his wand in the other. There is no hurry in him. He truly seems as if he could to this all day and another night.

I am grateful for the lubrication, for without it I would surely be chafed beyond repair.

"Snape," he says. "Look at me."

I look into his eyes.

"Are you holding back? Don't you want to come?"

I am shaking my head no and nodding at the same time. Rational thought, scheming, priorities, all have been pushed to the far corners of my mind and replaced by the immense need to come. Even my shame and horror at being reduced to such a state is a mere pinprick at the back of my mind. I beg shamelessly with my eyes.

"Well, come on then," he coaxes, changing the pressure of his hand, his motion, suddenly in tune with my internal rhythm. "Come on, now."

He speeds up once more and then I am coming, hard does not begin to describe it, coming like all the blood pooled in my feet is being sucked up through my circulatory system and spat out my cock--like all the blood in my brain as well.

Damn him. I realize my mistake as the blankness hits, as the moment of loss comes... and he slips in, those green eyes suddenly becoming my whole world as his mind invades mine.

And then it is gone, the invasion, the Silencing charm, the desperation in my gut, everything all at once. I fall back limp, my eyes closed, unable to move. I should have known this was coming. I could not have prevented it. I could not have played my cards any differently.

He knows everything now.

I feel the tingle of him cleaning me magically and then the shift in weight as he climbs off the bed.

"Potter," I say.

"You owe me an apology," he says, his back to me.

I open my eyes and see him standing stiffly, wand-in-fist, looking over his shoulder at me.

"An apology?" Just because he knows my secrets now is no reason for me to say so. "Pray tell me why."

He huffs in frustration, and then sits in the chair, his trousers obviously tented. "For jerking me around."

"Indeed. I hadn't realized that doing so was now Unforgivable."

His anger flares. "Why? Why do you do it? Why did you have to know? Why do you keep trying to hide things from me?"

"Is it not obvious to you, Potter? Thanks to Argus and the Order, you hold the power. That galls me. I push back however I can."

He frowns. "That's the truth, isn't it."

"Yes." I sit up and cross my legs, pulling some of the bed sheets over my lap.

"But you agreed to the terms willingly. Why fight it? I thought you wanted to regain your self-control."

He learns fast. "Yes, that is true."

"So then, every time you defy me, it's really yourself you're fighting, isn't it?"

"Yes." So, he has untangled the threads enough to see that pattern. Bully for him. Just because I see it, too, does not mean I can refrain from doing it, however. "May I ask you a question now?"

"I suppose." He looks at me curiously.

"I want to know the origin of your... fantasy."

He huffs again, but feels compelled to tell the truth because I did. Gryffindors. "It's really not that complicated, Snape," he says testily, though he reddens as he does. "You're the only person who's--I mean, I've never come with anyone else but you... so why wouldn't it be you I thought about?"

He means that first time, that night he appeared here and after making me come, he finished himself off as well. I have no spell to assure me that he is not lying to me. I have only my instincts and my usual ways of dealing with him. "Surely you jest. Ginevra Weasley never once polished your broom handle?"

"I--! No!" He seems on the verge of hexing me, then calms himself. "We were only together a few weeks, and it was... nice. But other than a little kissing and hand-holding down by the lake, well, you know."

So, another way in which Potter the Younger did not take after his sire. I contemplate that a moment.

"Snape," he says, as he puts all the pieces together. "If you really, really didn't want me to... ever touch you again, you know I wouldn't. But did you think I forgot you agreed to the terms? Did you think I forgot the lesson that Evan taught you, that you had to do it of your own free will or you'd resent me forever?"

He stands and my heart begins to beat louder in my chest. I want to tell him that what I resent is that he doesn't understand. He'll let me kneel at his feet, but not touch him. Then I remember he's just been in my head.

He knows. Surely he knows.

"This isn't about Argus," he says as he begins to pace. "This is about you and me and rules. Our rules."

"And you've been such an adherent of rules in your life? You know as well as I, that rules do not cover every circumstance."

He stops pacing and stares at me, the glare on his glasses keeping me from seeing the intense green of his eyes. Then he comes forward, climbs onto the bed.

He presses me back until I am lying flat and he hangs over me, his fringe tickling my forehead and his robes covering me. "Do you remember the rules, Snape? Let me say them again. You don't think about what you need to do or say, not when it comes to the others, and not when it comes to this." He makes the meaning of _this_ clear by brushing his lips over mine. I think he intends to go on, to state the other terms, but that little taste of each other is too much. In the next moment, he crushes his mouth to mine. My fingers bury themselves in his hair and I swallow his passion.

A voice tells me he is a hormonal teenager, probably not even homosexual, who has fixated on me because of Argus, and this is why he is stripping out of his trousers and pressing his erection against my hip. I tell that voice to shut up. He makes the decisions. We have agreed on it. He rubs his cock into the crease between my torso and my leg, and I wrap my arms around his back, helping to increase the friction.

He comes, shaking and swearing in my arms, his eyes closed tight for a moment and then wide open, staring into mine, as the last spurts of his come fountain across my belly. Yes, I could peer widely into him at that moment, but I do not. He has shown me all I need to know for now.


	19. Chapter 19

Hero Worship, Chapter Nineteen  
by Ravenna C. Tan

 

We are in the Room of Requirement the following afternoon when he makes the leap I despaired of him making. I am probing here and there at his thoughts while he tries to Occlude, when suddenly it is as if a grey mist descends. His eyes are focused on the far corner of the room, but then he glances at me.

He knows he's done it, at least partly. I allow myself a smile. "Explain to me what you just did."

He shakes his head to clear it. "I could feel you trying to get at some stuff about the Dursleys, and I was starting to get angry about it, and then I thought, what if I felt differently about it? I mean, what if I pretended those were happy memories and I didn't care if you saw them? And it was like instead of being in a tug of war over them with you, they just... melted away."

I nod. "You made them seem unimportant to you, even though that is not the case."

"Yeah. It was weird, like I could almost... fool myself into thinking it." He beams at me suddenly. "That's it, isn't it? If I can fool _myself_ , I can fool anyone poking around in my head?"

I stand up and stretch. We have been sitting still for a long time. "That is not the whole of it, but it is an important piece. I could tell you were hiding something from me, but I could not see what. At the higher levels, one can hide thought so successfully that the Legilimens cannot even tell that there is something hidden."

"That's what you do with _him_ ," Potter says. "Isn't it."

"Quite." I rub my eyes. "You may not need quite that level of competence to duel him, though. He knows, after all, that you are going to be hiding your thoughts."

"But wouldn't it be better if he thought he knew what I was thinking, and then I could be planning something else?" He stands as well, a yawn curving his spine.

"Let us not think too far ahead just yet," I say. "For all that a duel can be like a chess match, I think the most effective attack may be one that leaves him no room for maneuvering. It would be best if it were over with quickly."

The thought sobers him. "You mean a surprise attack? I should just jump out, a quick Killing Curse, and that would be it."

I shrug. "Let us not involve ourselves in strategy just yet. Until the remaining Horcruxes are found, plotting the Dark Lord's death can be little more than a pipe dream."

He sits back down on the tuffet with a grim look on his face. "I've been thinking about that."

"Indeed, you've been doing quite a lot of that lately." My jibe lacks the sharpness it would have had a few months ago. He nearly smirks. He transfigures the tuffet into a more suitable chair, crosses his ankles and looks up at me appraisingly.

I fold my hands over my wand and wait for whatever he is going to say.

"The night we went to the cave," he says, "I keep coming back to it. At the time I was so surprised by everything that happened, I didn't really have time to think about what happened very much. But now that we're going to search for the other Horcruxes, I find myself wondering."

"What sort of things do you wonder?" I prompt, standing as still as I can manage. Which is as still as stone.

"How did Dumbledore know about the Horcrux in the first place? How did he know the location, and how did he know about the potion? There was a potion there, which he had to drink--I had to make him keep drinking it."

"Oh, a _potion_? You don't say."

His eyes snap up at my sarcasm. He is not a stupid boy, no matter what I may have said in the past. " _You're_ the one who told him about it."

I nod. "I was his main source of information on many things, you may recall." _And I would have been yours, had I made it to the Dark Lord's side that night._ I do not say this. He realizes it for himself--I see his face fall.

"Then the search for clues in his journals... it's useless," he says.

"No. I was never Albus' sole source of information. There may yet be something important there."

In his despair, his anger returns. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Would you have listened? You learn much better when you draw conclusions yourself, Mr. Potter." That he has learned to question Albus' methods for himself is best of all. Had I impugned his mentor's motives myself, he would no doubt have resisted with his entire being.

He frowns but appears to accept this. Then he looks up. "Isn't it time for you to help out Vance?"

"Indeed. I may need to babysit the potion for the next several hours."

He stands. "I'll bring your supper to the lab."

Whatever emotion he is feeling, he hides it successfully. I would point out that he could send a house elf, but if he did that, I might never find out what it was.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, just a note regarding Severus' furniture. I really do mean that he has a _settle_ , and not a _settee_. A settee, to me, would be too feminine for his chambers, whereas a settle--which is a very high-backed wooden bench suitable for drafty castles (the high back kept the draft out) and often found in British manor houses--seems more fitting to his dungeon setting. You'll note I padded it, though. (The medieval ones tended to be just hard wood.)

Hero Worship, Chapter Twenty  
by Ravenna C. Tan

"About time, Snape," Vance snaps as I step into the room and close the door behind me.

"Pardon me," I say. "Other duties kept me."

He narrows his thin eyebrows, peering at me over his small wire-rimmed spectacles. "And just what, pray tell, are your other duties?"

I lift a glass rod out of a stand and swirl it slowly in the cauldron on the center table. "Didn't you know? I am at Potter's beck and call." I am curious to see Vance's reaction.

"Hmm, yes, I knew he had some kind of monitor spell on you but I count myself curious about it." He peers into the cauldron and, like me, is satisfied with the contents' color and consistency. "When the two of you disappeared from the meeting the other day it came as something of a shock."

"Purely precautionary, I assure you," I say. "Potter's way of separating Moody and myself."

"Yes, well." He clears his throat, and for a moment I wonder if he is going to complain about Moody. But he is more interested in me. "McGonagall and Shacklebolt have played it very close to the vest, you know."

I didn't know. I thought they had taken a vote on what spell to use on me. Intriguing.

He goes to the workbench on the side where he has already prepared the distillate of acromantula venom. As he measures it, he continues speaking with forced casualness. "His beck and call, eh? Some form of _Servitus_ , then?" He cannot keep the prurient interest from his voice entirely; he fairly chortles at my plight. "Or _Vindicta?_ I can see why they wouldn't want the Ministry to get wind of that."

"They gave me little choice," I reply smoothly, taking the vial of venom from him and adding two drops to the cauldron. That he believes the Order capable of inflicting such a Dark spell as _Vindicta_ , which compels obedience through intense punishment, shows he either does not know them very well--or that the Order thinks even worse of me than I thought.

I do not correct his impression. The instinct to spread misinformation is too deeply ingrained in me, and if Minerva wants my exact status a secret, then this is the best way to keep it.

"You needn't stay, Vance," I say. "I will add the venom as needed."

"Two drops per hour," he says, as if I were a seventh year apprentice, and I remember again that I dislike this man. "No more."

"I shall see you tomorrow." If I say any more we will either begin to argue or I shall hex him into next week for being a supercilious arse.

He leaves, and I set to my work while thinking over our conversation. I retrieve the jar of dried Osmanthus flowers from the store room. His knowledge of _Vindicta_ must be limited, as the spell can only be used for short periods of time and wouldn't be applicable to a long-term situation. _Servitus_ is a whole family of spells, all of them banned, but the knowledge of the its existence persists in Wizarding culture at large through titillating gossip and schoolyard talk. No doubt he has filled his head with fantasies about what kind of paces Potter must put me through.

My hand falters in crushing the tiny yellow flowers as I realize his prurience is not far from the truth. But I am not going to think about that, am I? We are doing it Potter's way and that is that.

I add two more drops of acromantula venom to the potion and then return to the pestle. The steam rising from the cauldron sweetens noticeably as I tip the yellow powder into the mixture.

"That almost smells good," comes Potter's voice from behind me.

"Trust me, you wouldn't enjoy the taste of this one," I say, taking a seat at the workbench.

He is levitating two trays in front of him. One floats over to me, while the other settles in front of him as he pulls up a stool. My eyes linger a little too long on his plate and he shrugs and says, "No one should have to eat alone."

Loath as I may be to admit it, I find the gesture somewhat affecting.

"So how is the potion going?" he asks, when we have both taken the edge off our hunger.

"As expected. Vance is a bit of a pill."

He snorts. "That's funny, coming from you."

"Perhaps it is something about potions that embitters one." Well, that and having your wife killed in his case. I lift the lid on the teapot and toss a pinch of whole Osmanthus buds into the water. "I take it Vance is not part of the inner circle."

He wrinkles his nose at that. "He's still sort of new, so, no."

"Dumbledore's Army," I say softly.

"What?"

"He probably never will be. Those who fought at Dumbledore's side will always be in higher esteem in the group than those who came after." I pour for both of us.

He sips. "It _is_ sweet. Not sugar-sweet, but... nice." His eyes cloud for a moment. "And this is the thing you put in the potion for Remus?"

I nod.

"You thought of it on your own? I mean... I thought you hated him..." He sputters to a stop as he realizes he is bordering on accusation.

I indicate his tray of food, the evidence of his kindness. "And I thought you hated me."

"Yeah, well, things change." He sighs then. "Can you quit being such a teacher all the time?"

"No. No, I cannot," I say, and hide my smirk behind my teacup. I then rise and add another drop of venom to the potion. The surface is beginning to shimmer. One more drop and the surface turns as reflective as mercury.

I cast _Stasis_ over the cauldron and step back. "This is finished for tonight."

I hear the stool scrape the floor as he gets to his feet. "Excellent." There is a tone to his voice that raises gooseflesh across the back of my shoulders. "So, your choice. Tonight or tomorrow morning?"

"I have no plans for tonight," I say casually, and he smirks.

We walk to my rooms mostly in silence, until he says, "There is another meeting tomorrow. I want you there."

"Of course."

He says nothing more about it, merely unlocks my door with the password and walks through.

He sits in the overstuffed chair as usual, and looks at me. I stand in front of the hearth waiting for him. I quiet my thoughts with the reminder once again that he is the one who must lead this. I may merely wait.

"I have some questions," he says, pushing some stray hair from his eyes.

I continue to wait.

"You said something once to me, about _Ardeoflagello._ " He rubs his bottom lip with his index finger as he thinks. "About how you and Rosier invented it, because one of you could come from the sensation of being whipped."

"Yes, I said that."

"You didn't say which of you it was, and I don't know why, but I assumed at the time it must have been him. But from the memories I have and what you've told me, it was you, wasn't it?"

He already knows the answer, but he phrases it as a question so that I must respond. Affirm. "Yes."

"Do you think that's still true? Could you still come from it?" His eyes are intent on me. When I hesitate to answer he says, "Come here."

He does learn fast. I settle at his feet and suddenly it is easier. "I don't know. It has been a long time."

"I'd like to try it." His cheeks burn. "But only if you trust me enough to."

He did say he had been practicing the spell... and the thought that he had this in mind for the better part of a week stuns me momentarily. I remind myself that I have been the object of his fantasizing. My throat works as I try to respond. "I trust you enough to let you throw every manner of hex at me in the Room of Requirement."

He draws his wand from the pocket of his robe and taps his lips with it. "No, you trust your own ability to defend yourself."

"You've been practicing the spell," I point out. "Which raises my confidence in you greatly."

He sits back, contemplating. "Not yet, I think. We're not there yet, Severus."

I realize I am somewhat disappointed, but he is right. Once again it seems my impulsive, irrational side is trying to take over. And once again it is Potter who hold the reins. I rub my face against his robe, my body impatient for the release it has been promised. "And where are we?"

"We're in your sitting room," he says with a toothy grin. "And we're both hard."

"Does that mean you're not going to run away this time?"

His smile fades. "What do you mean?"

I suppress the urge to knock my head against his knees. How, _how_ can two people who have read each others minds no less than a dozen times in a week still fail to understand each other? Proof that magic has its limits. "You know that I was goading you when I intimated that your actions were tantamount to rape, yes?"

"Yes, but..."

"And wasn't it you who said the ends would justify the means? That if we bring down the Dark Lord then any issues of age or propriety will be utterly insignificant?"

"Yes, but..."

"Then why won't you allow me to touch you?" My voice comes out much more hurt than I intend.

"You are touching me," he says.

"Let me be less ambiguous. Is there a reason you won't allow me to return your attentions?"

He looks away. "You know what? I think if I can keep that from you, I can keep my intentions from Voldemort."

"I don't mean this as a test, Potter."

He stands then, slipping from my grasp. "Well, I do. I'm serious." He puts his hands on the mantel, stretching his back and shoulders as he leans over.

I am at a loss for what to say. "You seemed to enjoy the frottage yesterday morning."

He turns to face me. "So did you, evidently." He gives me another measuring look. "But you agreed, my terms, my way."

"Yes, I did." And just talking like this, it seems reasonable that our interaction could be one-sided. But I know that if he makes me come-- _when_ he makes me come--I will start to ache to do the same for him.

"Then stop badgering me," he says. In other words, you'll take what I give you and be thankful for it, something I used to hear from my father's mouth all too often. "Let's take care of tonight."

"As you wish."

He sighs, but pushes aside whatever it is that is troubling him, turning bright eyes on me. Bright with triumph. He has hidden it, whatever it is, and I share a little thrill of success. We have a chance against the Dark Lord if he can...

He kneels next to me and searches through the layers of my clothing until he frees my erection. He circles my cock with one hand, my shoulders with his other arm, encouraging me to set my head on his shoulder.

It goes as it tends to, upward and upward, until I am straining and taut under his touch.

His voice. "Do I have to tell you to let go?"

"I..." I don't know. "I..." Letting go is a luxury I have not had in my adult life. I doubt he can understand that.

"Come for me, Severus. Don't keep me waiting." But I cannot quite do as he says. He huffs, then tilts his mouth toward mine, his lips and tongue feeding me the taste of desire. His desire.

My come fountains up through his fingers and he does not let my mouth go. Not until every part of me is limp. Then he withdraws, panting himself and quite flushed.

He stands up and jokes. "Minerva wouldn't approve, I think." The humor deflects my efforts to discern why he is now determined to leave.

"Indeed not. Minerva McGonagall would never let a guest leave in such a state."

"I'll be fine."

But I won't. Doesn't the damned spell tell him how I feel every time he walks out the door?

"You'll be good at the meeting tomorrow?"

"I shall refrain from outbursts, if that is what you mean."

"Yes, that's what I mean." He casts a Cleaning Charm nonverbally and Summons his glasses from the mantel. I had not noticed him taking them off. "Be good and I'll reward you," he says.

I can hope.


	21. Chapter 21

Hero Worship, Chapter Twenty One  
by Ravenna C. Tan

 

The first thing I do upon leaving my rooms in the morning is check the _Stasis_ on the Wolfsbane. Nothing has changed. I release the spell and start the cauldron simmering again.

The second thing I do is force down the panic that tries to crawl out of my chest through my throat. I agreed to Potter's terms in an attempt to regain my sanity, not participate in more craziness. But in the light of day I realized how utterly ridiculous it is for me to have such an emotional attachment to him. Nothing good can come of it. I am utterly vulnerable in this state. I am hyperventilating. I have spent years cultivating the forbidding, irascible image I project specifically to discourage anyone from becoming intimate with me, and I with them. Not even the Dark Lord's suspicions made me as sick with dread as I am now. My stomach churns and I sit heavily upon a stool, wondering if there is sassafras bark in the store room, anything to banish the nausea that grips me.

His hands seize my shoulders then, as he is suddenly there, brought by my panic and Argus. "What's wrong?"

Stupid, stupid fool. "Nothing," I say, even though I know he will know I am hiding something. "Just a bit... off balance." I Summon sassafras, and thankfully a jar comes to my hand.

His arms circle me from behind, his forehead resting against my spine. "It's all right," he says, and I would have thought that given that he is the source of my panic that his touch would make it ten times worse. But it does not. His voice is soothing. "Whatever it is, it's going to be all right."

He does not push. He does not pry. I'd be grateful if I didn't suspect it was because he wants something from me. My heart slows to normal. "I'm fine, now," I say.

"Good. We're meeting in McGonagall's old classroom again. Come up when you are done here." He slips away then.

I follow a few minutes later, after I am sure I have composed myself. When I enter the room, most of the others are already there. The murmur of conversation ceases as I stand in the doorway, as if waiting to be invited in. Anyone who was not looking my way does so as the room falls silent. Harry beckons me.

I walk, head high, to his side, then I sink down to sit at his feet, my robes pooling around me. One of the women gives a little gasp, but I cannot see who it is from down here. I lean my head against his knee.

"Leashed him properly now, have you, Harry?" Mundungus Fletcher says from the opposite side of the table.

Harry does not dignify the remark with a response. Instead, he says to me, "Severus, I think you might have something to contribute to the discussion we're going to have. It'd be easier for everyone if you were at eye level."

"As you wish." I raise myself into the chair next to him and fold my hands in my lap. Moody is looking at me with a wild-eyed expression, but he always has a wild-eyed expression. Lupin bites his lip, looking rather haggard as the full moon approaches, and Vance practically leers. I decide to keep my eyes on Harry.

Minerva heads the meeting, as she always does, leading with a discussion of opening Hogwarts on schedule at the end of the summer. There is dissent, but she has already cleared the decision with the board of governors. Hogwarts will be a safer place than most, they reason, and should it become necessary to bring the families of students here for safety as well, provisions can be made. The lioness will protect her cubs.

"Unless a suitable replacement can be found," she says, "I will take on the teaching of Defensive Magic myself."

"Don't you mean Defense Against the Dark Arts?" Arthur Weasley asks, looking puzzled.

She clears her throat. "No, Arthur. I mean Defensive Magic. Entirely too much focus has been placed on the Dark Arts and the overall curriculum has suffered. As a matter of course, much of the Defense curriculum must focus on curses and hexes, but in a time of war I believe students at all levels will need certain basic skills that they have been sorely lacking in the recent decade."

She turns to me. "Severus, if you would, may I borrow your syllabus from last term? To balance my duties as both headmistress and head instructor of this subject, I shall be grouping all first through third years together, and then all fourth through seventh years into a single seminar." She raises an eyebrow to indicate it is my turn to speak.

"A sound, if unorthodox approach, Minerva," I say, as if this is nothing more than a Hogwarts staff meeting. "My notes are entirely yours. May I also suggest that you deputize a few select students to tutor their fellows in the subject?"

Her gaze slides from me to Harry at that. "Yes, Severus, an excellent idea."

I am not tempted to try to hex anyone, and it appears that no one is tempted to hex me, either, as the meeting goes on. When, at one point, Moody raises his voice somewhat in my direction, the mere stiffening of Harry's posture toward him is enough to make him back down.

My caretaker, my guardian. The only real moment of conflict comes at the end of the meeting, when Minerva makes it clear she has a matter to discuss only among the inner circle. The Weasleys, Tonks, Lupin, Harry and Moody, in other words. I move to excuse myself, but Minerva exhorts me to stay. She and Moody exchange heated words, but I say nothing. Harry squeezes one of my hands in his and I sit quietly by.

In the end, it is Moody who stumps out, muttering to himself.

Minerva swings her wand in a warding circle before she begins to speak. "The final item on today's agenda concerns our current lack of information from You-Know-Who's camp. I want your suggestions on a strategy for replacing our former informant."

No one looks at me, though they exchange looks with each other. "Minerva, you can't be serious," says Molly Weasley.

Minerva McGonagall is rarely anything but. She turns to me. "Severus? Any ideas you have on who might be turned, even in their own self-interest, to working for us?"

"Among the older Death Eaters, none," I say. "Our only chance would be with the young ones, the students who are on the verge of being Marked, who fear the Dark Lord more than they respect him." I think on the class now heading into its seventh year. "If Draco Malfoy is alive and not completely out of favor, he might be approached. But there is too much we do not know about his fate."

"Malfoy?" Arthur says the name as if it is a new term for excrement and smells twice as bad.

But Harry speaks up. "No, I agree. I think Dumbledore thought he could be turned..." He looks at me. "You don't think he's dead, do you?"

"I have no way of knowing. I think he is most likely alive, possibly under the wing of his aunt Bellatrix. Knowing her whereabouts and plans would certainly behoove our cause."

"But he's just a boy," Molly Weasley blurts out.

Harry shifts uncomfortably in his chair. I do not, however, point out that we are already using one "boy" in our ranks. "I beg your pardon, Molly," I say, "But Draco is seventeen years old now and may be the most accomplished Occlumens of his generation." I should know--I taught him myself. It was quite a natural ability for him, probably only second to his talent for deluding himself. I assume that if he is still alive, that his illusions about the Dark Lord, himself, and even his own father have been stripped away, leaving him ripe for the plucking--not unlike the way I was when Albus offered me a choice so many years ago. I say none of that aloud, of course.

The debate begins there, as they argue over whether they can risk even trying to recruit someone, whether young Malfoy or someone else. I let them go on for some time, and then give Harry's hand a squeeze.

"Yes, Severus?" he says. "Do you need something?"

"I started the Wolfsbane simmering again this morning. I do not know if Vance is tending it, but if he is not, I need to advance it to the next step. This close to the full, we cannot afford a mistake." I stand to go and Minerva nods. When Harry nods in agreement, then I go.

I can smell something is wrong as I open the door to the laboratory. "Vance?"

He is bent over the cauldron, stirring furiously and sprinkling neutralizing ash. "Something's gone wrong." He squints over the tops of his spectacles. "This shouldn't be happening."

The formerly silvery mixture has volatile-looking patches of oily red swimming on its surface.

"I can't explain it." He turns on me suddenly. "Unless you sabotaged it. Everyone knows you have no love lost for Lupin."

"Pardon me," I say, even as my hand is feeling in my robes for my wand. The crimson unction is clearly a result of someone adding hellebore to the mixture at an earlier stage, and it would not have shown itself had I not added the Osmanthus. Why Vance would want to poison Lupin I cannot guess, but that is a question I intend to ask him under the influence of Veritaserum.

My wand comes out at the same time Vance lunges at me, not with a wand, but with the silver mincing knife. He grazes the underside of my arm with it as I hex him with a well-placed _Stupefy_. It takes a moment for me to realize that I've fallen to my knees and that my arm is numb.

He has poisoned me. The coldness in my arm and the slowness of the dripping blood makes me think that the knife was likely coated with distilled monkshood, one of the prime ingredients in Wolfsbane, or a monkshood and hellebore mix.

I try to Summon the antidote for monkshood, which I know is in the next room on a shelf, but I cannot lift my hand. Nor my head.

Nor even my eyelids.

But then he is there, my guardian, with an entire box of bezoars in his hand, jamming one down my throat and then whisking us elsewhere in a rush of wind and darkness.


	22. Chapter 22

Hero Worship, Chapter Twenty Two  
by Ravenna C. Tan

 

When I come to, I recognize the smell of the hospital wing before I open my eyes. I can hear Harry's voice as he argues with a mediwizard.

"Look, there's no reason to keep him sedated any longer."

"Mr. Potter, pardon me for saying so, but you are not qualified to prescribe healing techniques. He's been to the brink of death and that is not something to treat lightly."

"I'm not treating it lightly. But I need to speak to him."

"Harry," I say, and am not surprised to find my voice quite rough. "I'm awake."

I open my eyes to see him rush around the divider set between my bed and the next. He grips my hand in his.

The mediwizard rolls his eyes and shrugs before leaving. I could have told him, of course, that the bezoar that neutralized the poison would cut down the effectiveness of his sleeping draught as well. But I concentrate on Harry instead. His eyes are wet and he looks like he hasn't slept.

His words come out in a rush. "My God, Severus, I'm so... but look, what happened down there? I felt you go faint, and I just figured it must be a potions accident or something, which is why I grabbed the bezoars..." He trails off as he realizes I cannot answer his question if he is talking.

I explain it as best I can without the technicalities of potion-making that he won't understand or remember. "He accused me of sabotaging the potion, but I suppose when it became clear I knew it was he who had done so, he attacked me with a knife." I lift my right arm but there is no sign of a scar. The mediwizard is good for something after all. "The question is, why would Vance want to kill Lupin? Or me, for that matter?"

"Two questions I will find the answers to." Minerva comes around the divider in a bustle of robes and bristling indignation. "If you'd be so kind as to provide me with a few drops of Veritaserum, Severus. We've been waiting for you to come to."

I am all too happy to oblige her with the location of the unregistered bottle I have hidden in the store room. I presume she hurries off to utilize it immediately. The fewer witnesses to this non-Ministry-approved action, the better. As such, while the interrogation takes place, I am in bed in my rooms, with Harry at my side.

I am grateful for him. The bezoar neutralized the poison but could not undo what damage was already done. I am seized by shaking once or twice an hour and I can barely eat. The fits will pass once my body has dealt with the aftereffects on its own, but for the moment I am as weak and dependent as an infant.

When he strokes my hair, I feel better. He coaxes me to take a little broth and bread, and caresses my hair until I fall asleep. When I wake, wracked with trembling, he is there with soothing touches and calming words.

Sometimes the broth does not stay down. Damnable poison. My body is doing whatever it can to expel the evil substance. I am too weak to care how humiliating it should be that he must clean up after me. A few weeks ago I would have barred the door and allowed only the house elves to see me like this.

Now, because it is Harry, I do not care. "The brink of death?" I rasp at one point, wondering if that was mediwizard hyperbole or the truth.

The darkening of his eyes tells me it was the truth.

When the last vestige of the poison finally leaves me, I feel it like a weight lifting from my chest. My magic feels whole again. The room is dark but for a single spelled candle, burning on the side table.

Harry is there with me. He is curled against my back, fully-clothed but sleeping deeply atop the duvet. I do not wake him. Undoubtedly one of the effects of Argus is that he could not rest until I was safe. I shift under the blankets, throwing one edge over him and gathering him into my arms. He burrows against my chest without waking and before long I am asleep again.

When I wake next I know it is morning. The dungeon has no windows, but the years of living here have taught me to discern my internal clock. I am breathing in his scent and wondering if he will wake when his mouth seeks out mine.

The kiss is hungry, his desire going directly to my core. "Severus," he whispers, before devouring my mouth again.

I have no defenses against a desire so clear and ardent. My conflicting feelings, anger over his abandonment of me, fear of the attachment I feel for him, apprehension that at any moment he will leave again, relief that he was able to save my life as well as his own... all are obscured by his overwhelming need and the unbridled joy that surges up in me to meet him.

As he flings the bedclothes aside and slips his mouth from my face down to my neck, I want to ask, why the change of heart? But I am not a fool. I will not interrupt him. He pulls at his own robes, and I help, and in short order he pulls one blanket over us as he presses his skin against mine.

It has been a long time.

"Severus," he whispers, as he skims his erection along the cleft of my arse.

I burrow back against him. I do not deserve to feel this desired, this protected, this comforted. Not after the ways I have tormented him, the deeds I have committed. But we do things his way, his terms.

"You want me," he says into my ear, half-statement, half-question.

"Yes, yes," I say.

We roll over until he is on top of me, our two cocks rubbing against each other. He frees one arm from the blanket, Summons his wand, then the jar of Slippery Elm. He runs his slick hand over the two erections and I bite back a moan.

He repeats the question while he is teasing my anus, greasing me for his entry. "Are you sure you want me?"

"Yes," I repeat, wondering if he's forgotten.

"You aren't worried it's only Argus making us feel this way?"

I press my head back into the bed as he finds the nerves inside me that send waves of sparks to the ends of my extremities and am unable to speak for a while. When he withdraws, running his hand up and down his length and tugging on me with his other hand for good measure, I manage to say, "Are you? Worried?"

"I'm not the one who had a panic attack." He swirls the blunt head around my entrance, shifting his knees.

My heart is already beating as fast as it can go.

He speaks again. "I wouldn't want you having second thoughts."

I hook my feet behind him and try to pull him forward. "Damn. You. Potter."

"It's Harry, though, now, isn't it?" He leans forward and tries to kiss me while he continues to cocktease me. "You called me Harry when you first woke up."

So I did. "Harry, please..." I say through clenched teeth. "If it's only Argus that makes me feel this way, I promise, we shall find a way to handle that difficulty when it comes. I need y--"

He pushes through the first ring of muscle and I cling to him. It burns, but I have always enjoyed a good burn. He holds still, giving me time to adjust before he pushes further, then still further, until his balls press wetly against my backside. He seems to be trying to say something, but his body is quite preoccupied with the current activity. He backs out with a curve of his spine, then thrusts in again, his eyes fluttering closed. When he opens them on the next thrust, I can see the single candle burning in them.

"God, Severus," he manages, as he claws his way up my body to bury himself completely again. He lays his head on my chest, his lungs heaving, willing himself visibly to relax. I let my lips rest on his hair. When he has gathered himself, he looks up. "As I was saying. Or trying to. It's not Argus." He shudders then and pulls out of me completely, shaking but still managing to hold back. He gestures toward the candle since the effort of speaking is clearly too much.

I follow the line of his arm with my eyes, to the base of the candle, around which is wrapped a thin silver chain. I am still staring at it when he thrusts into me again.

His hand on my cock and his teeth nipping at the stubble on my chin regain my attention. "I want you to come," he says.

"If the charm is off, then I don't have to go first," I point out.

"Waiting for you," he says, adding a twist to his hand motion. "Don't make me wait."

"Kiss me," I say, and as soon as his tongue enters my mouth, I am coming. It feels as though each hot, hard thrust of his pushes a new spurt from me, and the sound he makes against my lips is raw and desperate, a cry I remember from the memory I have of him masturbating and imagining exactly this. He comes so hard he cries, and when he kisses me, he wets my face with his lashes.

And then we are both lying limp, and he lets himself soften slowly and slip out of me, and this time it's me cradling him and stroking his hair.

His humor returns before my anxiety. "I guess you're cured then."

"I don't recall unbridled lust being a side-effect of hellebore poisoning," I say mildly.

He rolls onto his side and tucks himself against me.

"So, when did you take the chain off?"

He pulls the blanket over us and settles his hand on my chest. "I couldn't, remember? Minerva did it when we were afraid you were going to die. We were worried that if you did, it'd kill me. So she removed it."

"Ah. Presumably that's when your fears about Argus being the source of your... attachment to me faded."

I cannot see his face, but I feel the twinge of startlement in his body. I have divined his secret. "Yeah," he admits. "And when I realized that if I lost you... that I'd have really lost something if you died." He clutches me a bit tighter.

"So was that your hidden worry? That it was the spell somehow making us act in a way we would regret?"

He snorts. "Oh yes. And other ridiculous crap, like worrying that you might turn me gay the way Rosier did you."

I start to sit up. "Evan Rosier did not 'make me gay'..."

"Hush, I know. I had a lot of ludicrous thoughts like that, though, but they were pretty much all reduced to nothing while you were lying there dying. I had a lot of time to think."

"How long?"

"Three days. I had a lot of heart-to-hearts with myself, with you, with Minerva even, during that time." He yawns. "Now, should we get out of bed or go back to sleep?"

"I, for one, would like to hear the results of Vance's interrogation."

"Yeah, that would be worth getting out of bed for." And before I know it, he is up and crossing the room.

I follow, a bit more slowly. I suppose that for now, there is nothing more to say about what has happened between us.


	23. Chapter 23

Hero Worship, Chapter Twenty Three  
by Ravenna C. Tan

 

Harry returns while I am still completing my morning ablutions.

"I have news," he says, sitting down on the still unmade bed. "They haven’t questioned Vance yet. They've been waiting for us."

I shrug my outer robe into place. "Thoughtful of them."

"They're waiting for us now, I mean." He stands and I follow him to the door, but he does not step through it. He turns to face me, his eyes darting over me. "Only Minerva, Kingsley, and I know the spell's been lifted."

"Argus was a nuisance and a bother," I say. I sink to my knees and take his hand in mine. "I prefer the terms we set ourselves."

He strokes my hair with a grateful smile on his face. "If you keep acting like that, no one will know anything's changed."

"Good." I stand and we walk in silence to the dungeons.

They have him in the same cell they had kept me in. Minerva, Moody, and a few others of the inner circle stand surrounding Vance, bound to a chair. Presumably Lupin is absent because of how close we are now to the full moon. I bristle at the thought that he might harm himself or others because of Vance's treachery.

Minerva hands me the phial and asks me to do the honors. Moody and Arthur pry Vance's jaws apart and I administer three drops.

I then settle at Harry's feet to watch the proceedings.

Moody starts, "What's your name and why are you here?"

"My name is Gideon Vance, and I'm here to avenge Emmeline's murder!" He jerks in the chair--the tics of trying to resist Veritaserum and failing.

Minerva steps forward. "And who, Mr. Vance, do you believe was responsible for her death?"

"The traitor, Severus Snape, of course," he says, glaring at me, his head shaking. "The Dark Lord told me all about how Snape gave her away. I told him I'd do anything to get revenge."

"And so he sent you here, to kill Professor Snape?"

"He sent me here to test me, he said. And if I succeeded, I would take Snape's place as his right hand man." He shivers and his knees shake.

Raising an eyebrow at me, Minerva continues. "And how did he test you?"

"There were three things I needed to give him, he said. The answer to a question, an object, and someone's life."

"Someone other than Professor Snape's life?"

"Yes. I was only to have that as a reward for my services."

"How typical," I whisper to Harry, who nods.

Minerva taps her wand against her sleeve. "I take it Remus Lupin's was the life you were going to take?"

"Yes," Vance says, with vehemence, his shoulders spasming.

"Well, come on, man," Arthur Weasley urges. "So what was the question?"

"The question was whether Snape had betrayed him or was loyal to him."

Minerva purses her lips before asking her next question. "And what did you tell him?"

"I told him you'd put him under some form of _Servitus_. That he had become Harry Potter's lapdog." He laughs maniacally at that and then looks at me. "And do you know what he said? It didn't matter. Even though Snape was still loyal to the Dark Lord, he would be my prize if I did as I was asked."

I speak from where I sit at Harry's feet, unperturbed by his ravings. "And the object, Vance?"

The man casts his eyes downward now, frowning and disgusted.

Minerva prods him. "Mr. Vance. The object?"

"I never found it," he says. "The Dark Lord was sure that it was here, but it wasn't where it should have been. And I would have had more time to look, but Snape got in the way. He would have exposed me, so I took the chance to kill him while I could." His eyes focus on me then. "Why aren't you dead? You should be dead by now!"

And then he lunges at me. We have all been so intent on his answers that we did not realize that he was working at his ropes all along as he squirmed in his seat. He flattens me to the stone floor, wrestling me for my wand. The others are shouting, unable to hex him for fear of hitting me, then Harry is there clawing at his back, his face, and now two wands are up for grabs among three wizards.

How he gets Harry's away from him, I do not know, all I know is that Harry falls back with a scream of pain, and the next thing I do is send a jet of green light into Vance's chest.

Vance falls with a surprised expression on his face. I can only surmise that the Dark Lord promised him immortality along with my life and other things that were not his to give. I have no attention to give his corpse, though, as Harry gasps as he tries to stand, clearly hurt, his hand to his neck.

Thank God for Minerva who keeps the doubters back with a quick wand and a stern look. Harry has been slashed. Blood wells under his fingers. But this wound I know how to heal. I sing to him softly, the incantation making my wand hum as I seal the gash.

When I am done, Minerva and the others bustle him away, to the hospital wing. Moody takes Vance's body.

Kingsley remains with me. I sit back on my heels, adrenaline and shock having their way with me now that the threat has passed.

"Am I a prisoner again?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "None of us would judge you for what you did, Severus."

"You would have used a Stunning Spell instead," I say.

He rights Vance's chair and sits in it. "I would have. But I am not you. And really, what would we have done with Vance? Kept him here as a tempting rescue target? A potential escapee? It's not as if we could send him to Azkaban. You did what no one else here would do. Maybe we should thank you."

I get to my feet. So that is what the Order thinks. But I worry most about what Harry will think.


	24. Chapter 24

Hero Worship, Chapter Twenty Four  
by Ravenna C. Tan

 

I sit at the teacher's desk in the Room of Requirement. He has said the terms still hold. If that is true, I expect him here within the hour.

He enters just as I am finishing the page I am writing on. I set down the quill and fold my hands.

He takes a seat at the small desk in front of mine, a minuscule frown creasing his eyebrows. He senses my formality and isn't sure he likes it. But he plays along for now. He waits.

I stand, my wand in hand. "They are supposed to be Unforgivable," I say. "Imperio, Crucio, Avada Kedavra."

His face impassive, he watches me.

"They are the definition of evil, as defined by the society we live in." I resist the urge to pace. "The Dark Lord split his soul by using one of them, in conjunction with other Dark magic, but even without the intent to create a Horcrux, the taking of a life through the Killing Curse leaves a blot on one's soul forever."

He crosses his ankles under his desk and leans back. I sharpen my gaze and go on. "The seriousness of taking a human life..."

"Severus," he says, to cut me off. "I get it. And this is what I'm going to have to do, so I better get used to it."

"On the contrary, this is why I've decided we must have a clear strategy of attack. There are thousands of ways to kill with magic. I think it best if you steered clear of the Unforgivables entirely."

He frowns. He no longer has Argus to tell him when I'm hiding something, but damned if he doesn't seem to know anyway.

I press on with my prepared topic. "The Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself have become dependent on them. They lack creativity and they lack flexibility. Both of which you have and can use to your advantage. Now, we never finished enumerating all the spells on our earlier list."

"Severus," he says again, with his authoritative voice.

"The terms hold, you said." I am angry now, so angry my voice hisses. "That means I am in charge here."

He nods, slumping back down in the chair.

"Good. Let us proceed."

I spend the next few hours schooling him on ways to exsanguinate a person, turn their spleen to acid, make their heart explode, and so on. I teach him which rare hexes are good for multiple attackers, ways to fake being hit, and more.

After lunch he finally snaps. "All right, all right. Enough, _Professor._ " He gets up from his desk and walks in a circle on the unicorn and phoenix rug. "Mind telling me what's made you so angry?"

I press my lips together.

"You're angry at yourself," he says suddenly. "That's it, isn't it? You're not mad at me at all." He stalks toward me. "This is because you killed Vance, isn't it."

I nod.

"Severus, in case you didn't notice, he was trying to kill you, and nearly killed me, as well."

"I don't expect you to understand," I say, refusing to meet his eyes. "In fact, I don't want you to ever understand." He should never have that blot on his soul. Not if I can prevent it.

"Fine. I'll kill Voldemort with something else. Isn't that what we've been talking about? You're still not telling me what's wrong." He comes the rest of the way toward me, but softly now, trying to put his hands on mine.

I pull away, as if my touch might corrupt him.

It already has.

He huffs and draws his wand. "I've had about enough Slytherin Death Eater drama for today, thanks," he says. "How about you just tell me what's bothering you?" He waves the wand humorlessly. "Or you could just let me see for myself."

I throw up a Shield Charm at the first push of his Legilimency and within seconds we are dueling. I had not prepared the Room for a duel today and there is a good deal of furniture to deal with. He ducks behind his desk as I try to hex him, then comes out the other side with a bright red Stunner. The hexes fly furiously, smashing the bookcases, as we exchange fire.

He is wrong. I am not angry with myself. Has he not seen the outcome we are headed for? Dumbledore's plan to place me at the Dark Lord's side can still be implemented. Vance told him I was being held here against my will, by a slave charm. Faking my escape will not be difficult--especially if Vance's death is explained as part of the battle. Harry is nearly ready to face the Dark Lord, and already we know that one of the Horcruxes is here, at Hogwarts. With what I will be able to discover when I rejoin the Death Eaters, the rest will be found quickly, of that I am sure. I will be there when Harry comes to fulfill the prophecy...

At least, that is what I am thinking when the Tripping Jinx I aim at him bounces off his Shield Charm and rebounds onto me, and I fall hard and knock my head against the equipment cabinet.

And he is on me then, his wand under my chin. "You're doing it again," he says, and he is the one who is angry, whose power pours off him in waves as he jabs me with the tip.

"Doing what?"

"Thinking." He gets up and brushes imaginary lint from his robes. "You're not going anywhere or doing anything until I say you are, remember?"

But he has read my thoughts. He knows his words do not reach me. I close my eyes, but I hear the slam of the door perfectly well as he exits.


	25. Chapter 25

Hero Worship, Chapter Twenty Five  
by Ravenna C. Tan

 

The summons to the lion's den is not unexpected. What I do not expect when I walk in is to see Potter on his feet, hands on Minerva's desk, and both of their faces red as though they have been shouting at one another.

Potter expels a breath and then sits in his usual chair, while Minerva fusses with a third cup of tea for me. I am torn between my yearning to place myself at his feet and the knowledge that the time for that charade is past.

I settle into the empty chair opposite him and his expression hardens.

"I take it you have been discussing our next move," I say, reaching for the cup as Minerva charms it to float over to me.

It shatters before I can grasp it. I glance at him, but he is staring wide-eyed at our dear headmistress.

"Oh my goodness, terribly sorry," she says, vanishing the spilled tea and slivers of china from my lap with a flick of her wand. "I'm a bit high-strung at the moment."

My mouth hangs open before I remember to murmur, "Yes, well, Minerva, it has been a trying time for all of us. Now, as I was saying,"--I shake off her offer of more tea--"I see no reason why at this juncture we should not carry on with Albus' original plan to place me permanently with the Death Eaters. It will allow us a simple explanation for Vance's death, open the conduit of information we have been lacking, and place me in a strategic position for Harry's eventual confrontation with the Dark Lord."

Potter's voice sounds strange, as he quotes from the prophecy. " _And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives_." His wand is in his hand, quiet in his lap. "You'd think I'd be used to it by now."

"You will have the best chance of success if I am there and able to help you."

"Have you considered that you might be able to just come with me?"

"The spell is gone, Potter. You've no reason to play the role of protector to me now."

"Don't I?" He's on his feet, his face stricken.

I turn to Minerva. "You must agree that this course of action makes a great deal of sense. Albus did not plan it on a whim."

She takes a deep breath and meets my gaze. "Elphias was here earlier. He has completed the decryption of Albus' journals. I... do not think we can fathom the complete depths of his plans, Severus."

"But surely..." She holds up a hand to indicate she is not finished.

She speaks to me as if she and I are alone in the room. "Consider your own plans, Severus. Are you truly trying to follow the last wish of a dying man? Do you feel that by doing so you'll absolve yourself of his death?"

"His death is... meaningless, unless we use it to our advantage." I feel a deep trembling in my chest as I say it. She is right, of course. I do feel that this is my only chance for absolution for what I have done. "If I do not follow through, his sacrifice will mean nothing."

"And what of Harry?"

I force myself to look at her, and not to look at the young wizard to my left. "His cause is my cause. To bring down the Dark Lord, that is my one remaining goal in life. But whatever... attachment we may have shared these past few weeks, surely it must be set aside now."

Potter makes not a sound. I find myself continuing. "Minerva, this was nothing more than a respite from the battle. I was allowed to indulge the fantasy that the hero of the Wizarding world was my personal shield from all evil. But I have no reason to hide behind him any longer."

Her eyes are unreadable. "Do you think he will forgive you, if you help him to defeat your common enemy?"

"Forgive me what?"

She gives me the look she reserves for recalcitrant schoolboys.

"For killing Albus?" I blink. For a moment I see the connection. And then I snap the thread. "They are called Unforgivables for a reason, Minerva. Albus knew that. I accepted my fate long ago." I can see the skeptical look in her eye. "I belong on the Dark side, Minerva."

She purses her lips. "Did Albus think so?"

"Yes, of course he did. He accepted it, as well."

Now her eyes turn toward Potter. I find I cannot look at him. He holds something toward me and I put out my hand, still not meeting his eyes.

A length of fine silver chain pools in the palm of my hand. He clears his throat. "It wasn't my idea, you know."

I look back to Minerva, who folds her hands together as she says, "The idea came from one of Albus' last entries, one of the first ones decoded. He worried about you, Severus, especially in his absence. He thought Harry should be your protector."

"My..." I clench my fist, the chain within, and press it to my forehead as if the thought will not penetrate any other way. Albus wanted this? Predicted this? He was always prone to sentimentality.

Minerva's voice is soft, as she too, quotes from the prophecy. " _And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not_."

"For Merlin's sake, Minerva," I snap. "You didn't honestly believe all Albus' talk about love, did you?"

"I am not talking about love, Severus," she replies. "Love is far too unpredictable and difficult to define." I hear Potter getting to his feet. "I speak of... _forgiveness_."

The word comes like a thunderclap—like a hex, it drops me to my knees. I cannot open my eyes, but I can feel a hand on my head, the maelstrom of thoughts spinning down to that one point, to the only clarity I have left, the only clarity I have had in weeks. To him.

"Harry," I say, as my shoulders begin to shake.

"I don't know, Minerva." He pets my hair with knowing gentleness and I suffer under that touch. "I think I can forgive him for taking part in the headmaster's plan. But I don't know if I can forgive him for trying to leave me."

Weeping is not something I've done much of in my adult life. But tears fall silently onto his robes.

"You must admit, his plan does have some logical merit." She speaks as though I am not there, prostrate and penitent.

"Of course it does. The headmaster was pretty sharp. But I think you may be onto something with the whole forgiveness idea."

"You needn't make any decisions now." She stands as well in a rustling of robes. "I'll finish reading the journals in the next few days and then we can re-evaluate. In the meantime, may I suggest you at least _try_ to forgive him? You never know until you try."

"Yeah, that's true." He reaches down, loosens my grip on his robes and takes the chain from my hand. I look up into his eyes and nod. He drapes it over my head, then grips it tightly in his fists. "Thank you, Minerva," he says, though his eyes never leave mine. "I'll let you know how it goes."

He leans toward me then, his mouth seeking mine, and even as the charm whisks us away, I feel his kiss bring me not pleasure, but absolution.

-end-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story came to me as a response to a question Regan V. put forth in her LJ about how difficult it was to get a convincing dom!harry, sub!snape scenario. Most readers don't see Snape as a submissive character (and many don't want to, which is fine). There are stories that have Snape as the bottom, but submissive? Especially with Harry?
> 
> My thought was that you have to have an empowering situation for Harry, and one which takes power away from Snape, and also a huge emotional shakeup that could cause them both to shift from their normal roles somewhat. It seemed obvious to me once I thought of that that Dumbledore's death is the perfect catalyst. The loss of his mentor leaves Harry hardened and growing up fast, especially as he fills the power vacuum in the Order, at first unwittingly, and then more actively. The thwarting/negating of Snape's role as the inside man with Voldemort and the seeming meaninglessness then of the sacrifice makes that same event that empowers Harry the one that unmans Snape.
> 
> Throw in a bonding spell and a kinky first lover for Snape, and voila.
> 
> ARGUS  
> Many readers were confused why I used Argus Filch's name for the spell. "Argus" means "caretaker" or "guardian" and was the name of a figure from Greek myth, a giant with 100 eyes who could always be on watch as all the eyes didn't sleep at the same time. Mythology was a good source for the name since the spell is supposed to be very, very old, so you see, my spell far pre-dates the birth of the Hogwarts custodian...
> 
> With the spell itself I wanted to express a principle I don't always see in D/s or master/slave fics, which is that there is a two-way street in such a relationship. (Well, and especially when seen in the context of modern D/s role play.) Both partners take part in an interplay and what many people fail to realize is just how much bloody work it is to be the top or the dom. The uninitiated often imagine that the dom sits about while the submissives rub their feet and run their bathwater. But when it comes to the actual work of taking care of ones erotic and emotional needs, a tremendous burden is on the dom. And after all, when the sub is tied up, blindfolded--who does the work then? The dom...
> 
> Anyway, my thought was that to bring out Harry's dominant side, it had to be tied in to his hero complex, hence the bonding spell compelling no obedience of Severus, but compelling Harry to divine and provide for all of Severus' needs, including ones Severus would have ignored himself.
> 
> DUELING  
> I've thought a lot about how wizard "dueling" or fighting could work, as anyone who read my fic "The Rematch" (Snape/Draco, postwar) already knows. There is too much left unexplained or developed only marginally by J. K. Rowling--I don't think she enjoys writing "action" very much. Things like a Stunning Spell is visible as a jet of light, yet people are able to dodge them like bullets. Can you dodge something that travels at the speed of light? And why can't hexes go around corners anyway? Trying to stay as close within the confines of the canon as I could, I tried to develop what would make sense as strategy and what sorts of things one would logically employ.
> 
> Re-reading the scene where Snape and Draco are fleeing Hogwarts and Harry is pursuing them, I was struck by just how powerless Harry is, and how easily Snape fends him off. I was also struck by the fact that it means we've never really seen Snape use even a fraction of his power or ability in the course of the books. Harry is very clearly not ready for a duel with the Dark Lord if that is the mismatch in ability we're to see. So a "teaching Harry dueling" scenario made a lot of sense to me, too.
> 
> I am a big old canon-geek, in case you hadn't noticed, but at first I wasn't going to rehash the entire flight from Hogwarts, but I kept coming up with more and more reasons why they could engage over it and lessons Harry could learn. I mean, Harry does down various Death Eaters with Stunning Spells in that battle, and yet every one of them escapes. What can we learn from this? How did Snape flick aside his attacks so easily? The answers are there in the canon, but they haven't been stated as explicitly as I chose to in this fic.
> 
>    
> FORGIVENESS  
> There's been so much talk about "the power that the Dark Lord knows not," and it being "love." My thoughts about the impending Book Seven have often led me to musing about this and the place that love will play in the final confrontation. In the canon, Harry hates Snape more than ever at the end of Book Six. I think it's too much to ask that this hate be turned into love (except for us slash writers, but I mean for JKR...) -- but what about forgiveness? Musings on that subject have led me to adopt forgiveness as the power that the Dark Lord knows not and will be defeated by, and that dovetailed nicely with this entire plot and the fic's theme.


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